Hit Me
by AbyssinianSerengeti
Summary: Belle - a professional hustler. Mr Gold - the owner of The Bellagio Las Vegas. He's rich and ruthless and just so happens to be Belle's latest target. But in the middle of cons outconning other cons, a history is remembered and events seven years in the past begin to unravel...
1. Ensnared By the Trap

A plot bunny that jumped into existence after watching Ocean's Eleven and Casino Royale. Or something.

**Disclaimer: I do not condone any of Belle or Jefferson's cons. 'Tis not very legal, or so they tell me._  
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* * *

Jefferson sniffed the air with a pompous twitch of his nose, fondled the brim of his favourite velvet top hat and strode towards the Baccarat bar. Tourists and temporary hotel guests stared at him as they passed. Let them, he thought with a smirk, this is what a high roller looked like: sober, impeccably dressed and pockets heavy with tigers and barneys. None of that drunken twaddle, 'I heart Las Vegas' shirts and measly white $1 chips.

"No suit? What a shame," said a creamy voice by his ear.

A slow smile spread across his face. He didn't even turn around as the woman brushed passed him, walking in the opposite direction. No point, she'd have disappeared into the crowd by now. He wondered if she'd play roulette or the craps tonight. The ghostly whiff of her perfume lingered for a moment, and then was lost against the other, sharper, smell of alcohol. Adrenaline and sweat pervaded the room with a familiar musk. Not even its vastness could hide that slightly tangy, unpleasant odour.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved the slip of paper his partner had dropped:

9

"Ah, Bellagio, how I've missed you," he murmured, tucking the note away and hopping up the three steps into the exclusive _Club Privé_. A hanging chandelier of glass and fairy dust fell in a curtain around the glittering bar. A wall of mirrors screened the better endowed guests from the chaotic hysteria that was the main floor.

"Sir Jefferson," a woman in a showy black dress handed him a crystal-cut glass of clear liquid. She'd adorned her face with a silky smile, as smooth as it was empty. "Your usual."

He lifted the Swiss rye vodka towards his lips, made a show of smacking them in appreciation and winked. "You know me too well, Regina."

She tipped her carefully coiffed hair towards him with a flash of teeth and sauntered away to serve another whale.

That's what he was, Sir Jefferson Wonders the Fifth. A whale. A high roller. A big player. He felt the heavy comfort of his pocketful of chips again and made his way to his normal table, depositing his satin suit pants into a cushioned seat with a sigh. He placed his glass and his opening bet in the same practiced motion. The dealer smiled in recognition, made some comment on the freshness of the night and dealt him his cards.

Placing a neat pile of black rimmed, orange striped clay discs – tiger chips – upon the green felt, he glanced to his right at the men already at the table. Satisfied that they were extraordinarily ordinary, Jefferson grunted and sat back, fiddling with one of his tigers. $100. Let the games begin.

OOO

Miss French chuckled as she brushed past her accomplice. His bright purple waistcoat had been drawing curious eyes. Of course, she chided to herself, of course he wouldn't wear one of the perfectly non-descript black suits he owned. Of course, Jeff just _had_ to have all the attention.

The cocky bastard.

Throwing her hands deep into the pockets of her own baggy second-hand jeans, French strolled from table to table, letting the noise of the place wash over her in comforting waves. She inhaled the intoxicating air, glanced up at the pretty little chandeliers and the almost imperceptible 'eye-in-the-sky' security cameras. Resisting the urge to throw them a teasing wink, she approached an area of the main floor that was particularly loud.

The craps pits.

As the hollering neared, a small, predatory smile spread over her lips. She widened her eyes theatrically, gently shook some of her hair into them and wandered over like an inquisitive, if slightly intimidated, puppy. The players barely noticed her approach, in her simple white shirt, rolled up cuffs and scuffed knees. She'd even stopped herself from washing her hair for a few days just to complete the look of a sweaty and exhausted traveller, enjoying the sights of the big city and a little unkempt from her adventures.

She edged near the rails, shoulders carefully slumped. A new bout of hollering erupted as the dice were thrown. French was quick to fake a wince and back several steps away.

"Oh, so sorry," she muttered at the man she'd tumbled into. The English accent rolled effortlessly off her tongue.

The man tore his eyes away from the table to nod at her, then doubled back, having spotted her glowing smile. His eyes softened, losing some of their manic enthusiasm for the game and he even went so far as to offer her a hand to steady herself. She took it with a practiced blush. "Thank you."

"Uh," he waved her off, "Hey, are you new to the game?" French glanced askance at him and nodded shyly. "Oh, you, wanna, learn? It's easy. Here I'll show you."

He led her closer to the raucous men and found her a place at the table. Careful to explain all the basic rules over the top of the conversation, he helped her place a pass line bet of a single red $5 chip. As he turned away to watch the roll, she couldn't swallow a grin as an image of the $10,000 tucked behind the mini bar in her hotel room came to mind.

"Ah, so she _is_ enjoying herself," he nudged her gently in the shoulder. "My name's David, by the way."

She extended a hand and thought to accompany it with one of her gentler smiles, "Belle French."

"Ah, la belle, la beauté," David laughed at his own failed French pun. "Oh look! You're even!"

He leaned down to pick up French's $5 earnings, having equalled her initial bet.

As he did so, quick as a viper, she reached out a hand under his chest and lifted two of his chips from his stack. He straightened himself with a big grin and placed an honestly earned chip onto her meagre pile along the rail. She feigned excitement.

"Thanks David," tucking his two chips into her pocket, as she blinked at him innocently, "So, where do we go from here?"

"We can put in an odds bet, if you're game."

French bit her lower lip and stared off into space, pretending to consider how much she wanted to sacrifice, when in fact she discreetly checked the location of the two floormen who would be roaming the tables. With a slow, trembling hand, she betted another $5. At David's encouraging smile, she placed the chip into the centre and watched as the dice was rolled again.

"A four! $10!"

He leaned over to retrieve her chips once more. With another inconspicuous swipe, she stole some more off his rail. Feeling confident this time, she risked three chips between her first and middle fingers. She deposited them with their brothers. At David's glorious smile, French felt a tiny pang of guilt. Here was a nice, if drunk, man who was just being friendly and she was shamelessly stealing his hard-earned money out from under his nose. Literally. She dared a glance at the pit boss. He was looking away.

Shaking off her glimmer of guilt, she reached across the rail once more. David had arched his neck back over his shoulder to demand another drink from a friend. Not taking her eyes off his face, French felt for two $25 chips this time, silently berating her own cockiness, and only just put them away when David turned back around. He saw her enquiring eyes.

"My fiancée," he said with a wink, "Mary Margaret."

French followed his pointing arm in polite curiosity, muttering congratulations as she eyed the small dark bob that weaved through the crowd looking to hail one of the waitresses wandering around and offering complimentary drinks. "How long have you known each other?"

"Three years," he drawled, then leaned in conspiratorially, "You wouldn't guess how we met, Belle. Can you believe that minx _stole_ from me?"

He guffawed. French raised an eyebrow, suddenly much more interested in the rather coquettish looking girl, "How...strange."

"Yeah, a girl thief," he laughed again, "Who would believe it. Who would believe it..."

Any of her lingering feelings of guilt evaporated in puff of smoke and narrowed eyes. _You'd better believe it_, she growled defensively in her head. If there was one thing she didn't take kindly to, it was underestimating her sex. She patted her growing bounty and smirked from behind strands of her hair. Beside that lump, she felt her cheap, disposable phone and slid it out.

It was 8:48pm.

"Hi, Gaston," she said cheerily, speaking into a phone that wasn't even unlocked. Mouthing an apology to David, she stepped away from the table and continued her one-sided conversation. Her eyes darted around the arena, saw a floorman to her right eyeing her in disapproval and approached the stony pit boss instead. The man drew together two dark eyebrows and began to tell her that using cell phones was prohibited on the floor. French grimaced and flipped the phone shut with a snap. Brushing her fingers through her hair, she batted her eyelashes once.

"Excuse me," she glanced at his name tag, "Leroy. I was wondering who I should report some suspicious activity to."

He frowned an unshaved muzzle and grudgingly waved her to continue.

"I think I saw a man swapping his table with loaded dice," she pointed to David's table, her finger accusingly directed at his back. As if on cue, he lept up and fisted pumped the air. Even from this distance she could hear him say, "Take _that_ Bellagio! Ha HA!"

Leroy's face darkened even further and he muttered something into a walkie talkie and told her in no uncertain terms to keep back as this was going to get messy. French was still for a fraction of a second, then she darted around the tables and took a different route from the guard. At the corners of her eye, she saw the floor people shadow their boss's footsteps and advance on the innocent David.

"Oh, excuse me!" she mumbled, knocking into an engrossed player she passed. He threw her a disgruntled look, wiping the spilt drink off his chips and swore in her direction. She lifted her shoulders in apology then quickly hurried away, his sunglasses now upon her own face. "Idiot."

The hair elastic around her wrist pulled up her wayward locks and she noticed a discarded jacket and bag at the foot of a distracted patron. Dropping her phone, she ducked under that table, shrugged on the leather, quickly fumbled through the purse and took out the tube of lipstick. Hurrying towards David's table, she applied the cosmetic, buttoned up her new prize to the neck and slicked a wetted finger over both her eyebrows.

"Don't move!" Leroy yelled, tackling David to the ground as he won another bout of money. The table and those around burst into madness. The extra two men pounced and held him down. Amongst the shrieks and pleading yells, French slipped to the discarded rail, the guests swarming around her to get an eye full of this new novelty. Knowing the grabbing hands and clicking camera phones that sprung up at her shoulders would hide her hands from any watching security, she quickly ran around the table and swept the unattended chips into her stolen purse.

"I didn't do nothin', sir! I swear, I swear!"

French took the dealer's stick, scooped the cubes towards her, pocketed the real ones and replaced them with her own pair of loaded die – all in one fluid stroke.

"What are you talking about?" David said, two men yanking him to his feet by his armpits. He looked straight at French but failed to recognise her in her new disgusie. "I wasn't cheating! I was having a good night! Just a lucky night! Come _on_, this isn't fair!"

Leroy growled. He stormed towards the table and picked up French's counterfeits, lifting them to the chandelier lights. Very clearly, the shaved edges of the cube showed they'd been tampered with. A hush settled around the crowd, followed by frenzied whispering as David was dragged haphazardly away.

Mary Margaret was left staring after her partner in shock, the drink still in her hand. Confused and disorientated, she didn't notice as a woman in fashionable dark glasses brushed past her and dropped two casino dice into her jacket pockets.

Said woman then walked away, her pace unhurried and head held high, her lips now painted a cherry red, her purse and pockets filled with a healthy $6085 worth of chips. Absentmindedly, she wondered if Jeff was missing her yet.

OOO

Sir Jefferson had his hands folded carefully over his fuchsia waistcoat, a second glass of vodka at his table. His fellow whales were not so relaxed as he. More had joined since he'd sat down and now two even wore mirrored sunglasses. Silently he scoffed, this wasn't poker, who did they think they were?

As his pretty little brunette dealer gave him his two cards, Jefferson lifted then a fraction and took a careful sip to swallow his frown. Only a three and a five. How terribly disappointing. In fact, this whole night had gone quite frightfully. He had started with $5000, his usual for a Friday night, and after an hour of careful play, had only raised that amount to a mere $8000. Quite a poor effort for an _entire_ 60 minutes of work, he whined.

Glancing at the diamond-studded Montpellier upon his wrist, he smiled slowly. It was 8:58pm. The smile grew to horrendous proportions and made him look quite mad, he was sure. Suddenly, the three and five didn't look so terrible. He surrendered them, of course, and waited for the next round.

Right on cue, a woman in an even showier pink peplum dress than his cocktail waitress Regina, appeared at his shoulder.

"Ah, my dear, you look _ravishing_," he lifted his glass to her, eyes sparkling as he noticed a pair of sunglasses atop her head and a new black leather coat swung over her arm. "How was your evening?"

French lowered herself into a seat beside him, crossed her bare legs with a dramatic sigh and said, "I went to watch a show at Caesar's. Horrible soprano, I felt like the windows would shatter."

The dealer gave Jefferson's partner a warm smile, "You saw the opera. You didn't enjoy it?"

"Emilia de Ravin had such an awful vibrato," French said in a perfect New York twang, "'Italian trained' my ass. I nearly walked out at intermission but you know, Jefferson darling, I ran into Gaston and we spent Act Two catching up."

Jefferson faked a frown, "That flounced-up Frenchman?"

"Oh shush," she hit him with the back of her hand and simultaneously opened a purse he had never seen, just low enough beneath the rim of the table that the dealer would not have a clean view of it. Nor the eyes in the sky. "He's really not that bad once you get over just how..._French_ he is. No offence, of course, sweetie."

The French dealer only grinned at the snark aimed her way, "Will you be playing, Lady Bella?"

"Oh no. But," she pretended to fumble around in her purse, though Jefferson could see with a grin, that it contained nothing but chips, "Ah, here we go, some chips we forgot to cash in from last time."

The dealer bit the side of her mouth and watched with a mild expression as several large piles were added to his own generous stacks. Quickly, with the finesse of an experienced worker, she counted that it added up to a round $6000. Of course, only a whale could forget to cash in that amount of money. $6000 would pay off all her credit cards. Without waiting for permission, accustomed to Sir Jefferson's tastes, she traded the many lower valued chips for 6 bananas – yellow and white striped $1000 discs.

"Ah my lovely," Jefferson drew the socialite to his side for a sloppy kiss, "We must bet it all!"

"Oh dear, really, that's..."

"No, no! You're tired, I'm tired. Let's get this over with!" Jefferson pushed his pot forward, all $12,000, as if it was nothing to him.

The dealer shook her head in soft disbelief and asked the other patrons how they would like to proceed with their hands.

As she was otherwise occupied, Jefferson gave French a rather more demure kiss on the cheek, whispering, "Nice timing Bee, I was getting bored."

She snorted, "You know I told you 9."

"Doesn't stop me from being bored," he withdrew with a shrug and another peck. In the palm of his right hand, carefully hidden, were his two trump cards. He hoped they wouldn't be too sweaty or bent from having been kept hidden a whole hour. The pit boss who managed Club Privé, a voluptuous woman with rosy cheeks, had come up to the table and was carefully watching proceedings. Jefferson gave her a beaming smile and nodded at the large pile of chips he'd betted on a whim.

"Madam Superior," the dealer greeted.

"Just a matter of course," she eyed Jefferson and French carefully, but seeing nothing except a young, wealthy couple – probably an heiress and the son of some minor European royal family – she simply watched from the sidelines.

Their dealer alighted upon them and dealt two cards. Jefferson lifted them a fraction and saw that it was a simple ten and six. Not horrible, but nothing spectacular, certainly not enough to warrant a $12,000 bet. Enquiring eyes upon him, Jefferson placed his hand above his cards and made a small shaking motion. He would stay.

The men to his right revealed their hands: two threes, a Jack and a four equalled a 20; an eight and a Queen equalled 18; the third man surrendered; and finally, an eight, an ace and a Queen equalled 19.

Jefferson had his two false cards kept carefully hidden and flipped over his ten and six. Moving impossibly quick, he palmed the dud hand and made the switch. In the space of a second, with a graceful flick, a new pair was revealed.

"Ace and Jack," their dealer said, glancing at her boss, "Very impressive."

He gave a bark of laughter at the disgruntled faces and slammed a heavy hand upon the man closest to him. Instead of using his right hand, within which his palm now held the original cards, he reached astride his own chest to pat the guy with his left.

"My luck had to change, ain't that right?" He downed the rest of the vodka in a triumphant gloat, knowing that the House would have to have a blackjack as well to draw even with him. Of course, when their soft spoken dealer turned over her cards, they were a Queen and ten. Only a 20.

He gave another belt of laughter and French had the decency to roll her eyes a little. Their $18,000 winnings were silently passed towards them. Madam Superior had nothing to say. She'd watched him carefully, and even with a decade of experience, had missed the sleight of hand.

"Bad cards all night and then she arrives," Jefferson said lightly to French, a complete lack of subtlety, "My lucky charm. My beautiful lucky charm."

French suppressed another roll of her eyes. The cameras would be focused on their table. Winning large amounts of money triggered alarm bells. Even for whales. The eyes in the sky would be zoned in on them. Probably closing in on their faces, scrutinising from every angle. She just hoped Jefferson's lack of discretion would be seen as realistic ecstasy.

"We should do it again!" he roared at his own joke and made to push his chips across the table.

Standing in alarm, French acted as the frustrated spouse and pulled him back into a firm embrace. "That's enough, dear."

He pouted, "But you're my lucky charm, things are changing, darling, I can feel it! Just once more!"

At their close proximity, she could see, in the flicker of his eyes, that it was just an act for the cameras. Her mouth forming a gentle, though stern, curve, she gave him her careful counsel that $30,000 was a good haul for one night. Jefferson seemed to physically deflate. French had to give him kudos for his acting. He really was something else. The other men looked at him in a mixture of envy and scorn. Their dealer smiled blandly, Regina the waitress was glancing over disinterestedly at who was just another customer richer than her and the sullen Club manager had nothing to say. French could see exactly what they saw – a man too foolhardy, conceited and stupid to think of any scam.

It _had _to have been dumb luck.

"Alright, alright. Astrid, doll, could you exchange this for me?" he waved at the huge piles of chips. Then accepted, with a melodramatic, but perfectly in character sigh, a large wad of freshly pressed bank notes.

Tugging him down the steps of Club Privé, French continued to keep in character, putting on her shades and strutting through the floor like she owned it. Her dress was clutching at her thighs and swaying with the steps she took in red stilettos. At her arm, Jefferson was engrossed in counting the notes, shameless greed upon his face. The other guests looked at them with equally hungry stares. French wandered past the craps area, their hollers having returned to normal volume after the mishap of the night. Strolling straight past Leroy, who very obviously did not think she was the same person, she made it out of the wide-spread doors into the lobby.

It wasn't until they were in the back of a taxi, driving down the Strip, that either she or her partner spoke.

"So," he said, staring out of the window and up at the gold-lighted buildings, neon signs and all around glamour.

She kicked off her shoes and rolled down the windows. As they sped up, leaving behind the glaring brightness of the main street, she tossed the now empty purse out the window, watching the reflection of their driver's eyes in the mirror and making sure he did not see the action. The wind whipped at her hair, pulling at the careful bun she had fixed in the bathrooms. Closing her eyes carefully, she breathed the frigid night air through her nose, loving the almost painful feel of its freshness. No more hazy casino, no more drink-tainted air.

"What do you want to do now?" Jeff asked her, falling into his usual American voice, instead of the Welsh tongue 'Sir Jefferson' would speak in.

She had her head leaning back against the seat and turned it to look at him, still at that reclined angle, "Sleep."

"And tomorrow?"

Sighing, she twisted away, welcoming the wind once more.

"Bee?"

"Mm?"

"Let's take tomorrow off," he said softly, a hand placed awkwardly on her thigh.

She looked down at it, resting against her flesh and felt it tremble lightly. Funny how they could act like a couple, yet when the mask dropped, he could be so shy. Giving him a grateful glance, she rolled up the windows and nodded, in her own Australian lilt, "Thanks."

In comfortable silence, they pulled up to a cheap, two-star motel on the wayside, paying the fare with cash from their heist. They watched the cab disappear, making sure it was well out of sight before hailing another. Instead of stepping into the motel, they jumped into this new cab and ordered it to drive back the way they had come.

"Caesar's Palace, please," Bee said in a falsely cheery tone.

In the backseat again, Jeff carefully unbuttoned his outrageous waistcoat and folded it in half, placing it in his businessmen's leather tote. Bee French put her pinched jacket with it and quickly took off her dress. Underneath, she was hardly naked, having put on a full, tan-coloured body stocking that was both warm and modest. She flipped the dress inside out and removing some pins and making a few adjustments, she slipped it back on. Now it was a red number, and looked like an entirely new ensemble.

Shaking out her bun and pulling off the glasses, she tied her hair back in a casual, high ponytail. Jeff was now in a blue polo shirt. He'd removed the obnoxious golden clasped belt buckle and giant watch. His only accessory now was a large black camera slung over his neck. With a wet wipe, his theatrical eye make-up disappeared. Bee's bright lipstick too, which she replaced with a nude colour, using a small compact mirror.

So they changed in silence, becoming two new faces once more. He handed her a pair of ballet flats, and she placed her red shoes with his top hat upon the pile of clothing. Tucking everything back into his tote, they sat back into a comfortable pause.

The lights of the strip came back into focus, not merely a distant glow. They stopped in front of the domineering Palace entrance and stepped out, watching the car drive away again before walking away from the luxury, across the boulevard to a much smaller compound.

The Flamingo was glowing with pink signs and decorations. But in actual fact, it was just a rather square and unsightly grey building. Bee stepped off the elevator on the third floor, a simple goodnight to her partner in crime. There wasn't much of a view here, and she didn't bother with paying for the resort access. Feeling tired, as always, she stuck her card into the door and collapsed onto the bed without changing – her half of their money clasped in a closed fist.

Jeff rode all the way up to the sixteenth level. He, on the other hand, had paid for access to everything, and a great view to boot. Sure, it was nothing compared to what he could get if he stayed at Caesar's or even the Bellagio they'd just stolen from. But he and Bee had both decided that big-shot hotels asked too many questions, offered too much room service and had too many cameras stashed around everywhere. Here, there was one camera per corridor and no one came through your door unless you specifically asked for it – none of that complimentary linen-changing and chocolates.

Sliding in his own card revealed a darkened, modestly furnished single room with a large king bed. Upon the bed were a bundle of blankets and covers and a head of messy blonde hair. He tip-toed as carefully as possible towards her but alas, she stirred as soon as he drew near.

Her weary eyes blinked open, "Hello Daddy."

"Hey, Gracie," he dropped to his knees beside the bed, stroking her hair and placing a gentle kiss upon her forehead. "Did you have fun exploring today?"

She nodded and looked over at where still-damp pink swimmers lay on the sofa seat by the balcony. He laughed softly, "Been swimming in the pools, I see."

"Dad?"

"Mhmm..."

"Can we go visit the chocolate factory tomorrow?" she said drowsily, her voice heavy with sleep. "I saw it on one of the brochures in the lobby. It's not very far...and it's not expensi – "

"Of course," he said quickly, hating that his ten year old daughter was thinking about the price of things. "As soon as you wake up. Anything you want tomorrow."

"You're not working?" she murmured, her eyes dropping closed. "That's good. I like when you're not working..."

Blinking back tears, he placed another kiss upon her head, lingering there, before stripping quickly and getting in beside her. Grace quickly rolled over, curling into a ball. He wrapped two arms tightly around her, felt her tiny heart beat softly through her Minnie Mouse pyjamas and pressed his lips upon her crown.

OOO

Bee finally managed to peel her eyes open and wander groggily to the shower at around 11pm that night, having drifted into a dreamless but shallow sleep in her clothes. Feeling sticky with sweat and uncomfortably parched, she jumped into the water and swallowed the liquid that poured from the showerhead. The taste made her gag and quickly reminded her that non-bottled water was a no-no in Vegas. Through the clear glass of the stall, she kept an eye on the bundle of money on the sink top, as if it would just disappear.

Brrrrrrriiiiinnnngggg. Brrrrrrrrrriiiiiinnnngggg.

"Oh damn," she cursed, hopping out of the water, banging her knee against the toilet and tumbling into the main room, looking around for the ringing.

Brrrrrrriiiiinnnngggg.

"Hello?" she said breathlessly, forgetting to use an accent, rubbing her kneecap and running back into the bathroom to grab a towel to wrap around her shivering self.

"Ah, this is Miss French, I presume?"

She dropped the towel in shock. Not wishing to let the pause draw too long, she quickly replied in the affirmative and dove to her bags, ripping at zippers and buckles for her other phone. Her hands found the blackberry and she quickly turned it on, with her iPhone nestled between cheek and collarbone.

"I believe you paid a visit to my hotel this fine evening," the slow drawl continued.

"Uh huh," she muttered, texting furiously with only one hand, "Um...who is this?"

"My name is Gold von Furstenberg," the man said pointedly.

Bee stopped in the middle of typing and gulped.

The voice added unnecessarily, "I own the Bellagio on Las Vegas Boulevard, dearie."

Bee was overwhelmed with sensation, shock was first and foremost but dismay and anger soon began to battle inside her mind, bringing on a furious migraine. Then there was that unpleasant shudder that ran down her spine. It wasn't exactly fear, or dread, but rather a feeling that this was a long time coming. How long had she and Jeff been playing the con game now? Seven, eight years? Yes, this definitely felt like Lady Fate – that bitch.

"Oh, of course," she said calmly, the New Yorkian back firmly in place around her tongue, "How can I help you?"

He gave a short laugh, a breathy sound, "I think, madam Belle, we may need a little talk."

Sending the text with a final: _we are fucked_, she threw her head back and bit her lip to contain the scream of frustration. Better keep up the farce as long as she could, "What seems to be the matter, sir?"

"Oh, I think you know very well, my dear," he said with a hint of malice. "Tomorrow, at eight in my lobby?"

Bee struggled to find what to say. That was one appointment she was _not_ going to keep.

As if he sensed her dubious intent, Gold said softly, almost hissing, "Don't worry dearie, you can keep my money. What I speak of is a matter of...employment."

She sat back on her hunches, still dripping wet and devoid of clothing, "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Well," he laughed again, this time almost a giggle, "As you probably know, I am a wealthy man, Miss French." At her silence, he continued, "and wealthy men have many enemies. I may be in need of your services."

She continued to listen, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. He added one more drop of enticement, "I will pay you. The casino rakes it hundreds of millions every year. I assure you, dearie, a deal can most definitely be struck."

He emphasised his final word with relish. She could almost imagine his reptilian grin. Still, no amount of money could tempt her to stay. Gold had to know that. Their cover was blown. It was time to leave, time to leave _now_. Preferably tonight. To Monte Carlo. Or Macau. Some other gambling hotspot far from here. Far from him.

"Still uncertain? Well let's see. If you do not agree to at least a meeting, one tiny little meeting, with me, then I will push charges against, and mind you I will win, this poor man you have condemned with your clever little trick. Hmmm?"

Bee felt her insides turn. David. Damn that man, of course she wouldn't put it beneath Gold to exploit her weaknesses.

"He is the least of my concerns," she said with forced disinterest.

"Ooh," Gold crooned, "But you see, you do not know all. David gambles in an attempt to win enough money to pay his mother's debts. My dear, the old lady is in trouble, what with this recession and all. She is without welfare. If her son were to, oh I don't know, go to jail – or worse, be fined up to $100,000 _and_ go to jail...well then, the bank will foreclose on her house. She will be on the street, with no family left at all."

She gritted her teeth. He was lying.

"If you think me telling you little falsehoods, dearie, you need only listen to David explain it himself. Lord knows he's been whining to me these last two hours."

A silence seemed to stretch for aeons. Her blackberry buzzed. Jeff replied with a simple: _Plan B. Pack your stuff. Meet me outside in five._

She set down the phone with Gold on the other end and typed out a quick text, heart heavy.

_No. You go on ahead. I have to deal with this. Meet in Dubai?_

"You're his only hope, my dear Belle," he sang. She hated the way he teased out her name and accented the 'L'.

Jaw tight and set, she ignored Jeff's incoming call, "Tomorrow. 8 o'clock. If this is a set up..."

"_If_," he interjected, "this is a set-up. I'm afraid there's nothing you can do about it. You're just going to have to _trust_ me."

His cackles echoed in her head and she slammed the phone against the opposite wall, where it shattered and fell to the floor with a thud. It wasn't until she was explaining the circumstances in a hopeless voice to Jeff, staring at the insides of her broken iPhone, that she realised he had called her private number. As Jeff attempted to convince her to abandon the rendezvous, this time, the shiver of sensation that flooded her skin was most definitely fear. A deep and dark fear. For not only did she feel like she had walked into a trap, Bee French felt that she had been watched for weeks, and lured there.

Like she had been baited and now was caged.

Jeff had been right. Jeff had warned her. She had _promised_ that this one wasn't personal. She'd promised, and she'd lied. And now she had thrown them both in the deep end. Stepping back into the shower, Bee swallowed the vile tasting stuff and wished she'd just drown.

OOO

"Ah, madam Belle," said a voice whose back was to her.

She approached cautiously, wondering how he knew it was her when other early-morning tourists were also milling about. Bee stared at the suited back, the cane at his side. He was a surprisingly small man and very slight too, with a mop of brown hair and a voice just as poisonous as she remembered.

"Gold."

He turned slowly and gave her an appraising sweep of his eyes, lingering at all the wrong places. She wanted to strangle him, wanted to punish him for looking at her so blatantly and yet could only just master enough of herself to suppress a shiver and keep her face blank.

"My, you are still a beauty," he said softly, hobbling over, "David was right about that much." He gestured his hands up and down her body, "Not even your tattered clothing could hide that from him. Then again, David always did have a thing for pretty women."

Bee registered his words just as David strolled up beside Gold. He looked very well for someone she could have sworn was completely hammered last night. Why wasn't he doubled over a toilet bowl somewhere? In fact, his gold-brown hair was gleaming, the marks of a wet comb still visible. A freshly pressed white shirt flattered a well built chest and arms. She growled.

"You bastard."

Gold lay a hand upon the taller man's shoulder and smirked elfishly, "You should have listened to your instincts dearie, and did they not scream for you to flee, hmmm?"

"You. Are. A. Bastard," she turned her eye on David, "So that was all a lie? The craps table? The mother?"

David didn't even have the grace to look ashamed, he simply lifted his free shoulder in a devil-may-care toss, "Well...I do _have_ a mother."

Without another thought, Belle launched herself at him. Muscles that had been tensed and taunt since Gold's unwelcome call the night before now unfolded in relief, leaping on him and clawing for his eyes. As she neared, she scooped Gold's cane from out underneath him, causing him to topple and proceeded to beat David with the handle as she straddled his chest, winded and shocked.

Bashing his head and neck and shoulders, she barely registered people pulling her away. Leroy was one of them. She gawked at him. "You too?!"

The guard simply gripped her tighter, beard seeming to turning darker. "How did you know?" she hissed at Gold, who retrieved his stick and walked up towards her. He was barely taller than she, yet, held back as she was, he seemed to tower, eyes crackling with power.

"I know everything," he spat, "Did you really think you could get away with robbing me in front of my very eyes? Don't be silly, girl."

A bead of pride blossomed inside of her, she spat back, "I've done it once before."

"Ah yes, and your mistake was thinking you got away with it," he leaned in so close she could see the pores upon his hooked nose, "You _didn't_."

Her chest heaved as she matched his soulless stare with her own. She hoped she was drilling into him as much as he was digging into her own soul. Finally, he moved back, throwing in an aristocratic lift of his chin. He clicked the fingers of his left hand and pointed to David's battered body on the marble tiles. Two more security men hauled him to his feet, half-dragging him away. She looked after his rag doll form with a sadistic turn of her lips, eyes flashing and sorely wishing she had crushed his skull. Such thoughts were unlike her, but having stared down Gold von Furstenberg, she seemed to have gained a measure of steel.

He leaned across the concierge desk and muttered, "Take her to the 1-bedroom Penthouse Suite."

The horrified worker who was still staring at the place David had lay bleeding was afraid to even look at Gold, or Bee. "But...but...sir, there's someone already staying there!"

"Then get rid of them, Ruby!" Gold smacked a hand down on the table, making the girl jump. Bee almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

"Ok," she tapped shaking fingers against a state of the art computer set up, "Ok...ok...it's free. Um...but housekeeping hasn't cleaned it yet, I don't know if you want her..."

Gold turned around with a wolfish smile, "She's used to getting her hands dirty, isn't that right my dear?" A wave, and her two captors almost lifted her off her feet, moving her towards the elevators. She glanced back.

"What about employment? I thought this was to decide whether or not I would work for you!"

He called back to a look of amusement, as the lift doors closed on her stormy face, "You delude yourself if you think you ever had a choice in _that_!"

OOO

* * *

**The reason I chose Bellagio was because, if you Google it, it always seems to be the one that's getting cheated (recently $1.5 million). I found it funny given that Mr Gold seems to be robbed a lot...  
**


	2. Caged Like A Bird

At one of the topmost levels, Bee was roughly shoved out and towed towards a door. One of the men swiped the pad with his security key and they bodily pushed her inside, snapping it closed with a thud. She then heard it lock with a finality that frightened her. Strangely, the first thought that entered her head was that Gold would set the Bellagio on fire and trap her inside. Of course, the thought was nonsensical. But it didn't stop the claustrophobia that gripped her.

She needn't have worried.

Her new home couldn't have been further from a cave. Spinning around, Bee's hand flew to her mouth, a sickeningly girly gesture she had in vain tried to control. But whenever she was surprised, her jaw would drop and her fingers would cover them. Feet stepping cautiously forward onto the creamy, impeccably shiny marble flooring, she found herself standing in a giant living and dining room.

Persian carpets in chocolate and fawn were spread out on the ground, upon which mahogany furniture rested. Seats were cushioned with silver grey satin covers, the main table had a pristine dinner set, napkins, shiny crockery and tall crystal glasses (one for red or white wine, the other for dessert) surrounding a centre piece of golden lilies in a bed of dried tulips and red roses. There were palm fronds in one corner, behind a semi-circular couch of cream upholstery. On one wall was a cubist painting in autumn colours. Flashes of green art deco vases and fruit bowls caught the eye. A silent flat screen television was embedded into the wall. A granite bench top led to the wet bar, and an open doorway above which a row of fairy lights shone, framed a grand bedroom with peach coloured sheets, mountains of pillows and a mink fur rug of pure white.

She walked as if in a daze, towards the ensuite bathroom. Another mass of marble and glass and wooden linings caught her eye. She was about to step inside when a woman came tottering out and shrieked at the sight of her.

"Oh my God!" the lady cried, her apron askew and hair escaping a low bun in wisps of blonde. She gazed at Bee with wide, doe eyes and seemed to realise who she was. A moan escaped her lips, "Oh no! I'm so sorry, I didn't realise there'd be a guest so soon!"

In alarm, Bee jumped forward and caught the scrub that fell from her soapy fingers as she tried to straighten her clothes. It threatened to dirty the spotless carpet and was already precariously close to dripping. Bee moved passed the maid and placed it beside the toilet where it belonged. The girl flushed puce and hurried inside.

"You don't have to do that," she stammered, "I...I'll just be a minute," she suddenly stood as if someone had jammed a rod up her back, "Unless you want me to leave!" the girl lowered her voice to a more bearable pitch, "Unless you want me to leave, of course, and then...I'll go, I promise. You know what, I think I'll just go."

Bee sat down on the rim of the tub with a raised eyebrow and a disbelieving, though not exactly unkind, expression upon her face. "You won't be able to."

She twirled around, "What? Why?"

"It's locked."

The maid let out a shaky laugh, wiping her hands on her calico, "It opens from the inside."

Bee lifted an arm and waved her out, "By all means. Try."

She gave Bee a fleeting look of panic then hurried out into the foyer, Bee's footsteps following behind. "See? Locked."

"That's not possible!" the maid cried, eyes wide and staring again. "What if there's a fire?"

A laugh escaped her lips as she looked upon the girl, comforted to know she wasn't the only one to leap to such an odd conclusion, "We can always jump off the balcony," she joked with a half-shrug.

The girl looked horrified, her mouth so wide Bee could see her tonsils. "I'm kidding!" She turned away and walked towards said balcony with a shake of her head, and a snappy, "Jesus..."

There was silence for a moment as Bee stared out at the Las Vegas morning skyline. It was nothing magnificent, not like some of the places she'd seen. Not like Australia's skylines, which were much more breathtaking in the daylight, unlike most cities that preferred to shine after dark. She suddenly missed home very much, suddenly felt an ache between her ribs that had nothing to do with the tingling guilt of having beaten a man half to death. No. Bee missed her father, and it physically hurt. Biting her lower lip until she could taste the metal of blood, she refused to allow tears to fall. What if Gold was watching her now?

These big hotels, they had cameras everywhere. With another pang, she realised that everything she had agreed to do with Jeff had fallen to pieces. Never speak in your real voice. They were chameleons, shape shifters, they weren't supposed to belong to one country, or one people. But this morning, she'd most certainly spoken in her real Aussie burr. There, rule number two broken.

Rule number one was of course, run when something goes wrong. All systems to red and then run for your life and the lives of everyone you loved. That all went to hell when she agreed to come back to the Bellagio.

The money, her half of the $30,000, was still hidden in her modest (alarmingly so in comparison to this extravaganza) room at the Flamingo. She had a booking there until next month, another two weeks. They usually didn't stay in one hotel for that long, preferring to hop from one place to another, even if it was around the same city. But it was holiday season, so it wasn't unusual for people to book out a hotel for a month at a time. They'd decided it was better, and since Jeff had Grace for Christmas this year, it was practical to keep in one place instead of move around every four or five days and have the little girl displaced and asking questions.

Thinking of the money shooed away her unshed tears like a tonic.

"I'm sorry," the girl muttered, so quietly and so quickly that Bee almost missed it.

She turned around, realising she must have mistaken the silence for some wrong doing of her own. Other than being slightly hysterical and a little irritating in her scatterbrained actions, the scruffy maid was really quite blameless. "What's your name?"

She lifted her eyes and seemed afraid to speak again. "Ashley."

"Ashley," Bee said, drawing out one of the dining table chairs, motioning her to sit. She said abruptly, "What do you know about Gold?"

Her eyes widened again and she immediately jumped up, fumbling. Bee pulled her down again and stood above her, one hip cocked out to the side and waiting, "Look, I'm not trying to scare you – but you're in some very bad company here," she waved at the space between them, "Why do you think we're locked in? As some kind of punishment because you didn't clean the toilets fast enough?"

She caught sight of budding tears and softened her tone somewhat, dropping back into her own seat when she was sure Ashley wouldn't bolt again. She rubbed her temples with her two thumbs, when an idea came to her.

"Does Gold pay you well?"

"S'alright."

"So, no."

Ashley squirmed, "No...no, Mr von Furstenberg is good to his staff. It's just...last year, I was _involved_, with another worker."

Bee looked up at her through her fringe of fingers, "So?"

"So," Ashley's voice seemed to get smaller and smaller, "That's against policy. He cut my wages in half to teach me a lesson."

"That was a year ago?" Ashley nodded, Bee thought, "And he's still holding it against you. That man is such a – "

"No," she shook her head, "It's just that. I was away for most of last year. So the cut wasn't in action. I guess I'm making up for that time now."

"Why were you away?" her forehead crinkled.

Ashley stared at her for a long moment then mouthed, "I was pregnant."

"What?" Bee said blankly. "How old are you?"

"I'm twenty next month."

Bee groaned, "You've got to be kidding me. He cut the wages of a pregnant teenager? What did he want you to do, abort the baby?"

"I suppose he wanted me to go back in time and not have sex," Ashley said with unexpected candour. Bee looked at her in happy surprise and she flushed. "I mean..."

"It's ok. You don't have to be polite with me. I'm not your usual big-shot client. My ears aren't silk," Ashley giggled quietly. Bee looked at her, _really_ looked at her, "Hey, how badly do you need the money?"

The girl stopped laughing and bit her bottom lip, "I get by."

"So that means, you need it a lot."

She giggled again, "Right. Sean helps, as much as he can. He's the father," she explained, "He works in Yellowtail Japanese. It's one of the restaurants downstairs. But it's not really enough because he's going to college too and he's paying for that mostly..."

Bee put her hands together and clasped them under her chin, she leaned forward towards her companion and said slowly, "If I were to say that...I had a lot of money and that I could pay you to work for me. Would you do it?"

Ashley looked uncomfortable, "What if Mr von Furstenberg finds out? If he's locked you in then that means..."

"He doesn't like me very much, right," she said stiffly. "The feeling's mutual, believe me."

"Where did you get the money?"

"From people who have a lot more than they need," she said cryptically, "Or deserve."

"It's stolen?"

Bee made a face, "You got pregnant at nineteen, don't talk to me about morals."

Ashley twisted her calico apron between her fingers and then said softly, as if she was afraid of someone overhearing, "What do you want me to do?"

"Closed circuit camera feeds don't have sound," Bee said knowingly. Ashley looked up at the ceiling in fear but cleared her throat, ready to speak louder. "I need you to be my eyes and my ears."

"Which means...?"

"Which means that you wander around doing your job and tell me if you hear anything suspicious."

"How do I know what's suspicious or not?"

"Use your instincts."

"I don't really have very good instincts," she said with a grimace. Bee almost rolled her eyes. Of course not, this girl wouldn't know suspicious if it paraded in front of her butt naked.

"Okay, then after each day, when you do the service in this room, you tell me everything you heard and saw."

"I see and hear a lot," she said in confusion.

"Exactly."

She looked at Bee up through lowered lashes, silent for a long while. Then, whispering again, half in awe and half in fright, "What did you do to him?"

At the look on Bee's face, she quickly apologised and stood up, playing around with her cart of cleaning gear.

"Ashley," she said not looking at the girl, "I will pay you $50 a day and if you deliver something particularly useful, that'll be a bonus of an extra $50."

Ashley stopped fussing, her mouth gaping again, and asked hopefully, breathlessly, "How long will you be staying?"

"I don't know. But if he wanted me for just one day he'd have sat me in a conference room. By the looks of it," she gestured at the suite, "I'll be here for awhile." Fixing Ashley with a new and electric glare, she said firmly, "If anyone asks you what we talk about, you tell them I'm asking you about the history of the Bellagio, and that you feel I'm trying to pressure you into getting security codes."

"But I don't have access to those."

Bee stopped her condescending laugh again, "That's the point, kid. It's my futile attempt. I don't suspect Gold will let me out of here for awhile, so we won't bother correlating stories. Oh, and if anyone notices that you're getting extra money, say it's a government welfare grant and you've finally lowered your pride enough to ask for some help."

Ashley turned red. Bee looked in amusement at her discomfort, knowing she had struck a cord. Bee wasn't anything if not perceptive. She knew this was a desperate soul, needing money but too high and almighty to ask for help, choosing instead to work for what was probably an illegally minimal wage do laborious work for snotty elitists who could afford to stay in the hotel's most lavish rooms. Ashley was punishing herself.

"Yes," she said quietly, "That's a good idea."

Bee hummed in agreement and slowly began to explore the rest of her apartment, picking up a few coffee table books and flipping through them with interest. She took a glass off the table and poured herself a rich vintage red from the selection in her bar. Swirling it around and picking one of the volumes to distract herself with, she collapsed onto the couch rather inelegantly.

Ashley soon moved away, returning to her work in the bathroom. After what may have been an hour, the front door finally clicked open. Bee sensed it before she heard it and immediately jumped up from where her legs had been curled under her. She wished she had a gun. Instead, moving to the granite counter, she picked up a mint green glass vase and would use it as a bludgeon if she needed.

The door swung open with nary a creak and she was faced with the distasteful sight of Gold himself. He had changed suits, a brown suede number adorned his thin shoulders. He was flanked by two men, who immediately reached for their side arms at the sight of her makeshift weapon. She lowered it carefully, the fingers of her empty hand splayed wide to show her surrender.

"Who did you think it was, dearie?" he said with that Scottish drawl, stepping inside and looking around. "Assassins?"

She ignored him and stepped into the bedroom, "Ashley, you can go now."

The cart was wheeled out with some relief, but at the sight of the three men, two large and foreboding – Gold being small but equally ominous – she stopped dead. As a leaf in the wind, she became to tremble. Bee laid a rough hand in the small of her back and pushed her forward.

"Get out, girl," Gold added an extra shove with the end of his cane and a sadistic smile spread across his face as she shrieked and scurried away. Bee was sorry to see her go. Out of this room, who knew what she'd tell people. She prayed that the maid would keep her tongue. "Now. Our very own madam, herself. How have you enjoyed my amenities?"

"Your doors are sturdy. They're impossible to break, no matter how strong my shoulder. It's like a dungeon."

"Now that's a little unfair. This is one of my best suites. Much better than that hovel down the road, by the way," he held up her bundle of cash and threw it. Bee caught it in reflex more than thought, her mind too shaken with the idea that he knew where she'd been staying. "Interesting hiding place, behind the mini bar."

Then, without preamble, he lowered himself onto the couch, looking at the book she had been reading, a photographic history of his hotel, and stated, "You will work the casino floor every night. You will find those who mean to cheat me, and cheat them of their money in turn. You will give me this money you earn and I will pay you 30%."

"Right," she purred menacingly.

"And you will fetch me the cheaters and beat them to death with my cane."

Bee dropped her glass of wine. She looked down with a jolt.

"Oh _fuck_." The vessel hadn't shattered, having landed on the rug, but its contents had spread a dark stain across the fibres. A husky groan escaped her and she picked up the stem and looked at the bowl of the glass, a jaggard crack ran down one side from where the rim had chipped. After the initial horror at the unsightly mess faded, a bright spark of mischief sprung to her eyes and blushing cheek, "Please tell me I'm now on probation and must be sent home in disgrace, sir."

Gold eyed her curiously, an unreadable expression upon his face. "No."

"Worth a try," she laughed, placing the broken thing on the coffee table before him and turning to the two security guards with her hands on her hips, "There are tea towels behind the bar, and sinks in the bathrooms through there." At their looks of simultaneous confusion, she lifted her arms and shoved both in the chest with a flat palm, "Come on. I'm not going to take out my non-existent gun and shoot your boss. Go make yourself useful and clean up this mess."

"You order around my men like dogs," Gold said softly.

"That displeases you, sir?" she said with an innocent smile, picking up the yellow manila folder he had placed beside the glass.

"Not at all, on the contrary, my dear, it entertains me greatly."

She threw him a questioning glance and then proceeded to look through the dossier. She picked up a flawless passport, "What kind of businessman are you?"

"A resourceful one."

"You're giving me a new identity," she flipped a driver's license effortlessly over her knuckles and glanced up at him through her eyelashes, before eagerly turning to the next piece of documentation. "Isabelle Gallium. Oh." She quickly replaced the folder and sat facing him with a carefully neutral gaze. "So you know my real name."

"How do you figure?"

"Gallium?" she pointed at the ID, "That was rather obvious. And you kept Belle."

"I think it suits you," he said, also keeping his tone carefully neutral. "Madam Belle, would you mind being Miss Gallium for a night or two?"

Her eyebrows quickly disappeared into her hairline, "You went to all the trouble of creating this calibre of dossier and you only want me to use it twice?"

Gold narrowed his eyes and peered into hers, "Ah, madam, it is not safe to be repeating these aliases anymore. That was your greatest weakness, using the same rotation of names for so many years. It made your trail traceable."

She threw her shoulders back and attempted to gather her pride again, "Unlike you. I don't have the _resources_ to make up whole portfolios of new identities every couple of days. I had to make do with what I had."

"And indeed, you've done remarkably well," he said. Then almost as if realising he was complimenting her, he added, "For someone of _your_ standard."

She bristled.

He seemed satisfied at her response, "You will step out onto the floor tonight, from seven until one. You will catch any scams or cons and report them through one of the lovely men who will see to it that you do not try to escape."

"What about the eyes in the sky?" she asked, both bitter and curious. Those cameras, and the teams of professionals who manned them, were famously known to catch almost every cheat in the history of the games.

"I've spent many years in the business, Miss French, 99% of people we catch with the cameras, it's true. But it's the 1% we never catch that are the most dangerous. They are the ones who run off with most of my cash. They are the ones that have eluded me for more than a decade," he said wistfully, "And the faster technology tries to catch up, the smarter they play. I need someone patrolling the grounds who's more than just muscle, my dear."

She stared at him for a long time. "Why do you still call me French when you know my _real _name?"

He rubbed a hand over the handle of his cane, standing up with some effort, "I suppose I've just known you as Miss French for too long. That was the name you used the first time – "

Gold caught himself halfway through his words and turned away. Bee frowned at the curve of his lips, almost as if he was sucking a lemon. "The first time you stole from me."

Rising with him, still warily watching his expression, she was suddenly caught by an obvious question, "How did you know I had conned you?"

He chuckled. "You made an elementary mistake, dearie. A mistake, I'm certain, even if I told you what it was, you would never be able to remedy. It is in your _nature_ to make such a mistake as this."

Bee felt utterly insulted. Her hands balled into fists and she was only stopped from bodily assaulting him by his two men who took that time to stand from their hands and knees, depositing soiled tea towels on her counter and stalk away with their master.

"I will see you tonight, madam," he called from the foyer, she still standing in tormented fury, half wanting to kill him now and be done with it, half needing him alive to tell her exactly where she and Jeff had messed up. What did he mean, it was in her nature to make this mistake? Infuriating man!

With agonising gasps, she finally allowed herself to recline back into the couch. The ugly stain now dulled and pinkish in colour. She smirked, he'd have to buy a new rug. That gave her a childish pleasure. It was only when Bee moved forward to pick up her book again that she noticed her broken glass was missing.

OOO

Gold heard his own cane echo down the marble corridor of The Wynn's events floor. Much preferring this hotel's modern designs to Bellagio's heavy Italian decor, he always stayed here instead of his iconic resort. Owner of both Wynn & Encore and Bellagio, he was by far the wealthiest man on the Strip and with the amount of casino revenue that he didn't cash in to the pesky IRS, probably the wealthiest man in the United States.

Illegally wealthy, but wealthy nonetheless.

Despite the money he could place to his name, Gold was undone. His steps were uneven, hurried, panicked, as he rounded the corner to the start of the Fairway villas. Here there was a single metal door that appeared to be a staff entrance. Most of his snobbish guests probably didn't glance twice at what they assumed was a maid's staircase.

Typing in a five-digit number, the bulky portal opened at the push of his cane. It sealed shut once he'd slipped inside and revealed a looming doorway. Intricately carved limestone with twisting vines and fleur de lis framed a piece of oak, iron and black glass. It was a gothic double door, with lizards hissing and peacocks displaying their feathers in war instead of mateship. Trump flowers opened their petals to gape at the intruder, like Venus flytraps instead of bluebells. The design was so overwhelming, an eyesore of metal and woodwork that at first, it made the tiny keyhole difficult to distinguish.

Gold's stiff fingers fumbled inside his coat pockets. They brushed against the cool of the wine glass and began to tremble. With a rattle, he withdrew a bundle of car keys, safe keys, maintenance keys and all other sorts. None would fit the delicate antique keyhole.

Instead, he gripped the key ring, a custom Tiffany and Co. product of engraved gold and auburn crocodile leather in the shape of a cylindrical match lighter. As he unscrewed the top with unsteady twists, instead of taking out a striking rod, thin as a match stick to put to the flint of the lighter, he slowly, gently, retrieved a skeleton key no longer than his forefinger.

The scrolling metalwork was so delicate it seemed as if it would simply snap between the rough skin of his tips. At one end was the square piece that would fit perfectly into his door, the other was a large rosette, an image of indecipherable design at first glance. But after several moments, the twisting and coiling seemed to clear. One could see a crown at the top, sitting above what seemed to be a bell jar. And inside, in impossibly tiny swirls, was a single rose. If he blinked, the image would disappear back into the rest of the loops and curls.

Breathing harder than ever, knowing that even wire cutters wouldn't break its iron beam, Gold stuck the tiny thing into the hole and allowed it to swing the door open – its size belying the strength of its form.

The mansion that was unveiled meant nothing to Gold's glazed eyes. He stumbled into a maroon chair in front of an electrical fireplace and ran a thumb over the chipped rim of his wine glass. Closing his eyes with a groan, he threw his head back.

This was all a huge mistake.

Who was he to think that he would be able to handle her presence? The way she had run her lower lip over the glass, tongue darting out to lap at the juice, then as it dropped from her fingers, the way she had sworn, and that husky moan as she observed her ruin. Gold inhaled deeply, his chest heaving as a flood of memories, both painfully new and old, rushed forth. Did she remember as clearly as he did? This Jefferson fellow, what was he to her?

Angry at the thought of the stuffy figure who accompanied all of her heists, Gold gripped the glass tighter, uncaring as the broken shard bled him. Then at the thought of her teasing eyes as she asked for 'probation' or the way she'd shoved his brawniest hoons without even a dash of fear, his anger dissipated into another sigh.

If there had been another girl to do the job, he'd have hired her. But no, it just so happened that the only person who had even a chance at succeeding was Belle. His mind whispered the name, stubborn in his refusal to believe she had any other name than that. Of course, he knew 'Belle' was just another alias, but somehow, when his HR guy Hopper had passed him the file, her legal designation seemed incongruous.

She was Belle. Simple, final.

OOO

It was late afternoon when there came a knock on her door. Unfurling herself with an indulgent stretch, Bee pulled on one of the fluffy robes and reluctantly exited the toasty covers of her bed. The knock was repeated once more.

"Patience," she called, taking the time to nibble a pistachio flavoured macaroon from the selection she'd discovered behind the bar. Her mouth now full of sugar and pastry, she strolled barefooted across the chilly marble and stood up on her tip toes to peek through the hole.

It was with surprise that she saw Mary Margaret. She made to open the door, only to find it locked. She rattled the door knob violently back and forth and sent a curse down to Gold. Oh right, she'd forgotten, she was still a prisoner.

The sound of a card being swiped then the soft beep of the lock clicking open made her eyes wide.

"Why didn't you just walk in?" she asked as the woman took two steps inside.

"I was being polite," she said quietly, averting her eyes from Bee's form. Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled the sides of the robes closed around her and cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"So," she said, leading her inside, feeling foolish pretending to actually own the place. They both knew who had the keys. "You're in on it too."

"Are you shocked?" Mary Margaret asked, her light green eyes wide and questioning. It didn't seem mocking or patronising or malicious in intent. The lack of fire in this woman was unnerving. It disarmed her and made her own sarcastic quips, cocky hip sways and flashing eyes seem garishly obnoxious and overtly obvious.

"Not exactly," Bee finally acknowledged, "Not after seeing David."

Finally the guilt of having attacked him settled upon her. The very real expression of pain in the woman's eyes left her feeling like she'd just been reprimanded by a teacher. Yet, without a word of reproach, though she was fully entitled to say something and remind Bee that _Mary Margaret_ was the one with the key card, she handed over a coat hanger. Her toppling pile of shoe boxes was placed on the floor.

Taking it in uncertain silence, Bee unzipped the bag a fraction and spied a dress beneath the plastic. "What's this?" she said, suddenly on defence.

"Mr von Furstenberg wishes that this will be your attire tonight," she said, facing Bee's horrified expression with calm. "He knows you bought no change of clothing with you."

"So this is," she waved at the bag in distaste, "charity?"

Mary Margaret gave her an almost pitying smile, "Why don't you see it as a uniform?"

Bee threw her a withering look in reply. The woman didn't even flinch. After several more moments of holding her gaze and feeling increasingly ashamed of her own emotions, she finally looked back at the hanger and bag. Slowly zipping it down, she found herself frowning in confusion at the dress that was revealed. For one, it was very long. Much longer than would be convenient to navigate a packed casino floor in. And another, it was black. And green.

And scaly.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me."

Mary Margaret came in for a closer look, having apparently not peeked inside. The woman was a saint. "I think it's crocodile skin."

"Crocodile?"

"Alligator," she grinned, patting down her own dress. "Same as this."

Bee glanced at her clothing for the first time. She wore a simple, sleeveless heavy dress. It fell straight down, accenting none of the curves that Bee supposed existed underneath, and landed mid-thigh. At that length, it should have seemed revealing, but either because the dress was pure white crocodile leather (almost angelic despite the scales), or because Mary Margaret wore stockings, it seemed unfashionably modest. At closer inspection, it was obvious that she wore neither make-up nor jewellery. Bee found herself frowning again, and forced her gaze away. Who was this woman?

"I'm supposed to stay and report that it fits," she commented, lifting up the bag in a sweep of her arms and offering it like a baby.

Bee took the thing in ginger fingers and awkwardly manoeuvred it towards the bedroom door while trying not to turn her back on her guest. It was hard to consider her an intruder while she stood there with an encouraging smile, hands folded perfectly demurely before her.

Closing the door, she dropped the dress and lifted it out. Bee somehow managed to step into it and made all the pieces fit. The reptilian skin was surprisingly soft and seemed so thin that she was afraid it would rip. A hard bodice held it in place around her middle but then fell from her hips downwards, moulding over her legs and ankles, pooling a little on the floor. It was strapless, but large, angular strips of material protruded over the neckline like an echo of a beauty pageant sash. With a thin smile, she noticed two pairs of green-tinted transparent gloves and pulled them on, finding that they rode almost up to her armpits.

Fumbling around in the empty dress bag, she found a matching green clutch of the same rough, but soft, material. Its bejewelled clasp glittered in the fading light. Walking to flick on the lamps, she opened the bag and made a sound of surprise. Inside was a piece of paper, folded neatly in half.

She smoothed it open and ran a thumb over the elegant 'B' of the Bellagio monogram, embossed in rose gold. Below it was written, in a twisting script, words in black ink.

_The price of this dress is more than you ever stole off me. –G._

The paper crumpled in her fist. She practically tore the zipper off its rails, ripping the thing from her skin and hurried to find its hanging tag. Eyes bulging, she swallowed repeatedly, staring at the eagle insignia and handwritten note beside the price.

_$850,000_

_It is my hope that this creation is to your liking, Mr von Furstenberg._

_Your lady will mesmerise._

_Yours, Giorgio Armani._

There was a knock on her door. Bee's head snapped up and she called for Mary Margaret to enter. The lady stayed by the doorway, worry lining her brow. She was balancing the three shoe boxes in her arms and placed them as deep into the room as she dared venture. Bee wondered at her hurried exit and apologies until she remembered that she was as good as naked, with nothing but the shocking dress clutched to her in outrage more than modesty.

After her frenzied disrobing, she was sure that despite appearances, the crocodile skin was sturdy and supple enough to undergo extreme manhandling. So Bee balled her handful of fabric and threw it aside with a furious yell.

_Gold!_ That man was unbelievable! His smug insult was smeared all over the dress, and the shoes she now hunched over, throwing aside the petal-thin sheets of paper that cushioned the edgy heeled travesties she held in her hands. He was rubbing it in her face; just how much she really was at his mercy. Just how _badly_ she had screwed up.

He knew exactly how much money she'd taken from him. That one question gnawed at her: why hadn't he stopped her after he found out? Why didn't he do, or say, something? She, who prided herself on knowing the true nature's of others, found herself at a loss with such a simple question – such a basic question.

_What did he want?_

Gold was literally throwing his money at her. He'd _predicted_ she and Jeff would hit the Bellagio again and had even ordered a custom-made haute couture dress, just _waiting_ for her. He'd _planned_ to ensnare her. He'd had his people stationed on the floor. David. Leroy. And how many others?

And she had been oblivious. Oblivious!

What a horrendous lack of foresight. What a devastating err of judgement.

If he knew how much money she'd stolen, then he had records. If he had records, then that was evidence. If there was evidence, she could find herself behind bars with a bail of $2 million or more for her crimes.

Gold could destroy her.

Why hadn't he? Why _didn't_ he? Why continue to torment her, holding it over her head? And if he had those records, he could destroy Jeff too. What about Grace?

Bee screamed into the pillows, found herself still needing release and with perfect technique, landed a right cross punch. Straight into the wall.

The scream of anger and pain and exhaustion may have been her own, she wasn't sure. It sounded distant, as she fell to the floor beside the bed's headboard, finding two small hands come from behind and grab her shoulders. The blood was rushing in her ears and she had to blink several times before she heard what Mary Margaret was saying.

"You're bleeding," she pointed to Bee's right knuckles. They were bleeding, yes. Ghastly blue and purple bruises were already spreading, the skin was scraped and peeling. She was lifted to her feet and squirmed uncomfortably out of the other woman's grasp to peer at the indent in the wall. With satisfaction, she saw that it was permanently damaged.

A soiled rug. A battered wall.

She was on a roll. And it hadn't even been 24 hours.

"Are you alright?"

Mary Margaret's infuriatingly calm tones set her off again. Bee pushed past the petit woman, who, though taller, was thinner. She cared nought that she was still topless, but leaped over the giant bed to the cordless hotel phone. She waited, grinding her teeth, as it rung.

"Hello, this is Bellagio concierge, how can I help you?"

"Gold," she heard herself saying with steely edge.

"I'm...I'm sorry," the woman, Ruby, if Bee recalled correctly, stammered. "Mr von Furstenberg isn't available at the moment. If you like I can ask him – "

"Get. Him. Now."

"I'm sorry," she cried, "Mr von Furstenberg is in a meeting at the moment – "

"Then go into the meeting and drag him out!" she said, pausing between each word with deliberate menace. "Understood?"

"That's not possible, ma'am! If you'd call back – "

Bee threw the phone across the room and rounded on Mary Margaret. "Give me the card."

The woman widened her eyes and took several hurried steps back.

"Mary Margaret," she said with forced calm, "Give me the key card. I'm not going to hurt you."

She looked unconvinced. Bee guessed that with her flaring nostrils and heaving breasts, she hardly seemed in control of herself. The woman made to run out of the room and Bee sprung up, quickly blocking her exit. Her hand was outstretched and demanding. "Mary Margaret..."

The woman decided to try and duck under her arm. She was small, yes, but hardly nimble and Bee had her in a head grip in an instant. She breathed against her neck, patting the woman down in search for the precious key, "I told you I didn't want to hurt you. If you only...gave...me...God dammit where's the card?"

Mary Margaret's hand twitched and Bee immediately grabbed it with her own free one, digging her nails into the woman's nail beds and scraping. She shrieked in pain and dropped the card. Bee dived and retrieved it, in the same moment, had grabbed her discarded robe and was bolting across her foyer to the front door. With some hesitation, she locked it from the outside, just as Mary Margaret came to her senses and tried to join her out in the corridor.

Running to the elevator, she rode it down to the lobby, rushing from it in her hurry and earning several horrified yelps from the tourists she bowled over. Her hands smacked on the concierge desk before the rest of her body caught up. Ruby screamed and backed away.

"Tell me where he is."

Her hand shook and she seemed to be reaching for something behind the counter.

"Oh no you don't," she leaned over and caught the woman's wrist, stopping her from calling security. "I'm not going to report you or anything. Just tell me where he is."

She seemed to have gone into shock, her whites showing as the rims of her heavily lined eyes were stretched, staring at Bee like she was a ghost. She shook the wrist she had a hold of, "Ruby!"

The girl was jolted back into reality and looked sidelong at the other concierge worker. Bee gave the man a dashing smile, "Look sir, I'm a penthouse resident. You don't want to upset me, believe me, you do _not_." At her final word, she looked back at Ruby, her colleague uncertain and hesitating to call security on someone who was apparently paying more than his life savings to stay at their hotel.

He moved over and muttered, "Do as she says, Ruby, people are looking."

"Yeah, listen to – "

"Peter."

"Right. Peter," she beamed at him again, "Remind me to tip you next time I come down. I've got $25,000 just lying around upstairs." She looked expectantly at Ruby, "So?"

Biting her bottom lip and making a gargled sound somewhere between a sob and a beg, she said, "He's in the Renaissance room."

"And where's that?"

She gave halting instructions before Bee finally released her. The girl tottered backwards and into Peter, sobbing into his shoulder. She rolled her eyes, "Now if you had just told me over the phone. We could have saved each other this...unpleasantness."

Rushing into the Renaissance foyer, she didn't see the sculpted trees or beautiful architecture. Looking around at the multiple meeting rooms with their not-so-original names, she finally spotted Leroy outside 'Da Vinci 1.'

"Let me in."

He simply stared her down, arms crossed firmly and firearm very obviously visible. Bee sighed, brushed a hand through her hair and very purposefully gave him an eyeful of her bare chest. He only glanced down for a second, but a second of distraction was all it took. Bee yanked the gun from his holster and pointed it squarely at his head.

"Let me in."

She kept the gun trained on him until she had backed into the room, finally happy to have a weapon at her disposal. Demanding him to pull the door shut, he did so, sucking in his cheeks to stop a barrage of curses being hurled her way. She cocked an eyebrow at him, then jumped forward and locked the door as it clicked shut.

Swinging around, she found herself facing a half-full room of staring men and women. Four long tables had been placed in a square, the middle bare except of a large, terracotta vase that sat minimalistically empty. Bee walked forward, the gun held lightly in her hand. She looked from face to face. There was David, with his two bruisers, bandaged head and bleeding lips and chin. His expression was so distorted by the swelling that she didn't bother trying to decrypt it. Beside him was a man much older, with a balding head and small eyes that were drilling into her. She moved on, there was another man, bespectacled with red hair and a perspiring upper lip. He had a pen suspended in midair and was openly gaping.

Before she could complete her observations, her eyes were involuntarily drawn to the head of hair nearest to her. Long, unruly and brown, sitting on a slender neck and shoulders, covered by the brown suede she'd seen him in earlier that day. The cane was resting casually against the table beside his right leg. Of course, Bee recalled, the right side was the weakness.

"Madam Belle."

"I am not wearing your fucking dress."

"However did you happen to get in here?"

"I escaped."

He turned his head around, blinking profusely with a practiced expression of innocence. "Actually, I think half-escaped."

"What?" she stalked forward towards his chair.

"Half-escaped, dearie," he turned quickly back around and spoke away from her, "You're out of your room. Why not run? Why not chase that freedom you so desire, hmmm?"

She stopped in her tracks, the question took her off guard. With a horrible feeling of asphyxiation, she realised that he spoke truths. _Why hadn't she just run?_ She'd gone from one cage and walked straight into another – Gold and his Evil Council of Evil. She wanted to bang her head against the cream coloured walls. Wow, the Bellagio really enjoyed cream. So many shades of cream and peach and brown and fawn, everywhere. She wanted to shoot something, just to see a little red.

"I told you M and M couldn't be trusted," came a silky smooth voice.

_Regina._

In a red blazer, with redder lips, she turned an impassive face on Bee, looking as if her armed intrusion was nothing but a slight discomfort on a hot day. An itch. Bee now felt the overwhelming urge to bang _Regina's_ head against the wall. Her fingers tightened around Leroy's gun. She sure as hell didn't look like a simple cocktail waitress.

It hit her with a force. Gold's taunting words from earlier. The mistake. The mistake that led to all of this. Regina. Of course, it was so obvious now. How else had Gold caught her and Jeff when dozens of casinos all over the world had failed? Regina. Regina, Jeff's usual cocktail waitress. They'd let her in on a little part of their heist. The last, and only other time, they raided the Bellagio, almost six years ago now. She'd played her part, earned her share of the cash, and promised to keep silent.

They hadn't let her in on _everything_. But, Bee gritted her teeth, it seemed that even that little titbit they'd thrown her had seemed enough to crucify them. Regina had seemed so desperate, saying over and over that she was in debt because she couldn't afford the funeral costs of her fiancé. Saying that she'd been looking into working at one of the brothels in the towns a few stops over to finance it. She'd just needed a little money to keep her afloat. Just a little, because Gold was a crappy boss and didn't pay like he should have.

They had _trusted_ her.

Bee almost shot the liar then and there.

"Ah..." Gold sang, "And the rosy glasses come off. Do you see your mistake now, my dear? Trust has no place in the con-man's repertoire."

He still wasn't looking at her. She wanted him to look at her. Walking over until she was well in his eye line, she folded her arms and sat side saddled upon the tablecloth. It was only then that she realised her robe hadn't been very good at keeping her covered. Too angry to feel ashamed, Bee simply adjusted her scant garments and wondered if that was why he'd turned away so very quickly at the sight of her.

The thought almost made her laugh. Gold afraid of a little flesh. It was so preposterous when she was beyond certain that he was the type that frequented the kind of places Regina had pretended to work at. Memory of some of his mannerisms were returning to her, like the expression of careful indifference on his face that she knew was hiding squirming innards. She almost let the collar of her robe fall open again.

"You knew after Regina told you, and here I was thinking you'd actually watched the cameras and figured it out. I overestimated you."

He finally met her eye, "And I, you. I admit, I thought you had brains enough to take your window of opportunity and bolt. Apparently not," he leaned towards her and gave her that toothy grin, "You came back to me."

Despising the possession in his voice, it was all she could do to restrain herself from spitting on his face. Leaning in to match him, she said softly, "You know what I find interesting, Gold? Why you bothered to spend any time on me at all when you have always made it perfectly clear that I am worth no more to you that the dirt on the bottom of your shoe. Why bother giving me a suite? Why bother at all? To you, I am, and have always been, just a means to an end. For such a," she glanced down at his pants, "_big_...and important man, well, I'm sure you had many more big and important things to do. After all, I'm the girl who didn't even manage to steal enough money to buy a dress."

She glared, putting as much force behind it as possible, hoping to burn him to his core. It may have been her imagination, but Bee could swear she saw him waver as she'd spoken, soft and condescending and fluttering her eyelashes at the appropriate moments.

"I see I've struck a cord with dear Giorgio's work," he said quietly.

Her gaze dropped. It all came back; that it was her fault for pulling Jeff and Grace into this cage with her, her fault that they now all had Gold's evidence dangling over them. It hit her double, knowing that not fifteen minutes ago, she could have run out those front doors, hailed a cab and flown off to Timbuktu.

Hiding her wavering voice, she swallowed heavily, "I won't wear it."

Gold opened his hands palms up, "Why not? It's beautiful, surely?" Bee looked at the whites of his knuckles slowly disappear. Had he been clasping his hands that tightly? "I haven't seen it but Giorgio always delivers."

"It's crocodile."

"You wear leather Miss French?" he made an inquiring sound, "Do you suppose the cows are less worthy than the crocodiles that their hides are less offensive to strip and tan? That's rather undemocratic of you."

"Let's not talk about democracy," she managed to laugh without mirth.

He watched her lips curve and fade, "Yes you're right. If there was any justice in this world, I'd have turned you in to the authorities already."

There it was. He'd said it. The chandelier was literally an inch above her head, she could feel it about to crash. Unfolding her arms and getting the gun into a better position to grip, she rubbed the fingers of her left hand carefully along the barrel and felt the coolness of its metal calm her burning flesh. She was glad it was a faint flush of adrenaline, not the heat from blushes. She could not bear to blush in front of Gold. That would be a whole new level of torture.

"Why aren't you turning me in?" she found herself saying to the gun, looking down at its dull surface and surprised to hear the angst in her own voice. "You didn't even bother to look at the million dollar dress you made me. Obviously, it's not a case of making me work back the money I took."

Bee looked up and waited until she had forced him to hold her gaze. "Of what _value_ do I have to you? Why am I here? Why am I not in a courtroom, or talking to the IRS or the NGCB? And don't give me that bullshit about needing a man on the floor. You already have Leroy, David, Mary Margaret, and Regina, as I now realise."

He had his mouth in a tight, firm line.

She waited for a reply, when none was forthcoming, she threw her head back and said in exasperation, "What you do _want_?"

"I want a caretaker."

She shook her head in confusion, "A what?"

"A caretaker, dearie," he repeated, sounding suddenly much more at ease, he brought his fingertips together and looked at her over them, "For my rather large contingent of floor staff."

Nodding over to the door, she narrowed her eyes, "Isn't that what your henchman's for? The pit boss of all pit bosses?"

"Leroy is commander of my personal security team," he saw her befuddled eyebrows, "Except in very special circumstances, of course. Last night, for example, when we went in for the swoop and catch."

She stuck out her bottom lip in silent protest at the way he made her sound like small fry. "A caretaker?," she repeated glumly. "To oversee _all _your floor staff?"

He looked amusedly at the rest of the group, and gestured to their sullen faces with a sweeping hand, "You have hit it right on the nail, my dear madam. I need a professional thief to help guide the rest of the flock on my new mission."

Bee turned an eye on the 'rest of the flock.' Regina wasn't even bothering to hide her look of contempt and even through David's blotchiness, she could make out his unhappiness. She gestured to them, "So um...did you, uh, bother to tell your _flock_ about this plan. Or was it more of an impromptu kind of thing because you didn't want to answer my questions properly?"

Gold laughed that breathy laugh of his, "My, my, that sharp tongue's going to get you into trouble one day."

He turned away, very obviously dismissing her. Not content to be swept under the rug, she spoke to the group, "Which one of you geniuses figured out all my personal details? My birth certificate, that I was staying at the Flamingo, my private number..."

The one in question did not volunteer himself, nor even look at her, but since every other person around the tables looked at _him_, Bee didn't take long to figure out it was the freckled (and now beet-red blushing) man in the middle.

"Hi," she waved, trying to catch his eye, he looked up and quickly glanced away, "Mr Profiler, I just have to mention that I've spent more years conning than I've spent at high school. I hope, for your sake, that you know exactly what you've advised Gold to do."

The red head looked at her in confusion.

"It was you, wasn't it?" she pushed, "Who told him that I'm his only option for this 'mission'?"

"Oh well," he tugged at his collar at her incessant staring, "Yes...yes, that was me."

"I thought so," she turned her eyes upon his boss, "I didn't think Gold would ever ask for me, even if we were the last two people on the face of this earth. You must have been very convincing."

Gold was seething, "Likewise, I thought you smart enough not to coming knocking on my front door. You did steal money off me, dearie, I hardly threw myself at your feet."

"But Mr Profiler," she called to the redhead without taking her eyes off her adversary, "Does he, or does he not, need my help?"

"Your services are required temporarily," Gold hissed.

"Just like old times."

There was a beat missed. His eyes widened and narrowed all at the same time, pupils disappearing in the violent fury that consumed the room. The very air seemed to shimmer with his anger. Bee almost backed down, afraid that his hands, so near, would grab and break her. She'd experience how strong, and clever, those fingers could be. The thought made her quiver and flush but biting the inside of her cheeks, she held him there, daring him to lay a hand on her. Daring him to try.

Gold waved in the direction of the door, an obvious effort to remain cordial in the tightness of his jaw, "If you please?"

She wanted to leave, wanted to simply fly out of the room and hide. Only once before had she seen him as angry, and that time, so long ago it was only a blurred recollection of words and heat, he had not hesitated to strike her. He'd broken her then. He could just as easily now. So rarely was he completely, entirely angry with no hint of condescension, or ridicule or gloating, or even vengeance and loathing.

Continuing to stubbornly keep her place, she saw that he did not hate her, if that was any consolation. No, Bee thought, if she was shoved against a wall and shot that wouldn't be much consolation at all.

"I'm serious when I say I'm not parading around your casino looking like a lizard."

He blinked. It was as if a blank sheet had dropped, like a passionate scene upon a stage was suddenly blocked from the audience's prying eyes by thick red curtains. The room appeared to lift, a unanimous breath of relief indrawn, or perhaps it was simply her own lungs that expired her frozen breath and restarted.

Gold flicked a couple of papers and wiggled some fingers at her, "Then by all means, show up naked."

Hardly daring to hope that she had escaped unscathed, Bee dismounted from her perch and walked towards the door with as much pride as she could muster. Her steps lacked rhythm and seemed jerky and off balance even to her own ringing ears. _ But he hasn't hurt you,_ she said to herself. A flash of screaming and thrashing and the taste of bile and salt in her throat blanketed her. Bee was both repulsed and relieved, so relieved her heart would burst from her chest if it thumped any harder.

He hadn't hurt her.

"Oh and Miss French?" Gold's bitterly cold voice called, "All security are now aware of your circumstances and will not hesitate to detain you should you seek to exit the premises. If you wanted to run, it seems you've missed your chance. Good day, and good bye."

Frozen, with her back to the room, Bee made a sour face and roughly shoved through the door, sprinting all the way back to her suite. Mary Margaret was nowhere to be found, probably called security to let her out. Walking back into the wreck that was her room, she threw the scaled dress into her empty armoire and opened the bathroom door to splash water upon her face.

Coming to a dead stop in the doorway, she glimpsed the mirror and planted her heels into the ground. Above the sink, scrawled in what she supposed was lipstick, were giant red words:

GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN

Edging carefully forward, glad she'd not let go of Leroy's Beretta, she spied the tube used to paint the glass and peered at it. There were no fingerprints, so she gingerly handled the tiny thing with its broken and flattened tip. She surprised herself at how much it shook, balanced there between her finger and thumb. It was an expensive brand, and she looked at the bottom of the small cylinder: Cherry.

A shiver ran down her spine and Bee glanced around the pristine bathroom and out into the messed room. She realised with a sickening jolt that with the hotel phone smashed against the wall and her own Blackberry hidden in her room in the Flamingo, the numbers on its contact list too confidential to risk when she'd met Gold that morning, she had no line of contact with the outside world.

Suddenly afraid of what unwelcome surprises a suite this size could hold, Bee hurried to pull on the clothes she'd arrived in and flew out the door, down the elevator into the throngs of people. The Christmas decor greeted her, its red and gold and green sparkles should have danced before her eyes – but all Bee could see were the big letters smeared across her bathroom mirror. The goose bumps stood proud and tall upon her pallid skin.

Trying and failing to shake the image from under her, she joined the other guests, with their flashing cameras and laughter and general good cheer. The soaring domed ceiling of Via Bellagio greeted her, yet even its height and size could not stop Bee from sensing that their shapes appeared like bird cages, holding in the shoppers instead of setting them free. The glass was striped in such a way that they seemed like menacing bars, giving a peek at the blue sky and free air above but feeling nothing, not even the slightest breeze, trapped as she was inside the vast resort.

Bee, for the first time since she'd voluntarily stepped into this hell, wanted to cry.

She'd gate crashed Gold's meeting to push him. That much she could admit. All she had wanted to do was make a stand and prove that she wouldn't' sit tight while he locked her in his finery, dressed her up like a puppet and ordered her to move where he wanted and speak with his words. Yes, she'd pushed him. Pushed him just like she'd wanted to, but instead of triumph, she found herself falling apart. Intentionally, yet unintentionally, she'd found Gold von Furstenberg's limit.

And it frightened her. Like it had before, like it probably always would. Whether or not he touched a hair upon her head, he would scare her with the simple knowledge that he _could_.

Forcing away tears, aware that security were patrolling the high-end shopping street, Bee unceremoniously pushed aside wistful window shoppers. Her pockets were heavy with her green bills and she shoved past gawkers outside the buttercup Chanel storefront. Stepping inside, the noise from the street was muted. Mannequins looked down upon her from their perches on the stands and appeared disproving of her presence. With childish ill humour, she stuck out her tongue at one of them, to hell with the cameras.

Bee wasn't fussy. She couldn't have cared less about the service she received and hardly felt justified to that sense of entitlement. Yet in places such as these, she'd generally have been greeted by now. It wasn't until she glanced back over her shoulder at the people she'd displaced and their critical expressions that she realised she hardly looked the part in her jeans and worn faux-leather jacket. That combined with unbrushed hair and what she could imagine was a generally pale and nauseous disposition, she was rather surprised they hadn't asked her to kindly vacate the premises already.

Hurrying up to the counter with none of her usual saunter, she caught the shop assistant's eye and easily demanded a dress.

"I'm sorry?"

"A dress, someone told me you guys sell those," she quipped wearily.

The woman walked around the counter with a winning smile that only faded a little at the sight of Bee's state of attire. Half a decade cheating at poker tables had taught her not to heed much attention to that liar that was the human mouth, instead, she examined the lady's eyes and was disappointed to spy an unhappy and overworked employee. Did Gold rub off on all of his staff? That was the only explanation for why they all harboured the desire to throw themselves off a cliff underneath the carefully scripted replies, courteous smiles and helpful, falsely cheery tones that 'welcomed you to the Bellagio hotel and casino! And hoped you have a very good stay!'

After a moment to compose herself, the lady said, "Is there anything particular that you had an eye on, madam?"

If suddenly felt alien to hear someone call her 'madam' other than in that lusciously misleading drawl of Gold's – a little patronising lilt, a dash of menace, a pinch of amusement thrown in for good measure. She frowned, shaking her hair into her eyes as she did so. Then, her hands coming to push her clumped locks away from her face, Bee had the good sense to straighten her back and pull out her wad of bills. Her hip jutting to the side, her fingers moving in a blur, she quickly deposited 100 $100 notes upon the slick counter, to the woman's obvious chagrin.

"What can I get with this?"

Flustered, the lady snapped her mouth closed and blinked rapidly at the cash, she stammered that there was an exclusive collection in the back of the store and waved her over with a gracious hand. As Bee walked towards the allocated section, she looked back and watched as the confounded assistant held up a piece of the precious plastic and peered at it through the light.

OOO

"Well that was interesting," Regina said lightly, pouring herself a glass of water from the iced pitcher. It rattled in the otherwise silent room. She looked around, "Wasn't it?"

Gold fixed her with a quelling gaze and she would have backed down for no one else. Even then, the teasing smile falling from her lips, she went grudgingly. Sidney beside her flipped the pages of his folder in busy preoccupation until she slapped his hand down. He took solace instead in gulping mouthfuls of cognac, eyes darting around the tables.

"She's really something isn't she?"

"Now really Granny, I think Gold wants us to change the subject," said a blonde woman with thick, purple-painted lips.

"That's Mrs Lucas to you," the elderly woman said sternly, her tone and sharp eyes behind wire rimmed spectacles not at all grandmotherly. "And you, von Furstenberg, one of my maids Ashley told me you shooed a high roller from his suite to accommodate our new guest. That's hardly good management, now is it? What is Sidney going to do with public relations if he complains?"

Sidney took the opportunity to say something on the topic of business, "She's right. If Leopold says something we can't deny the accusations. It'd be a PR mess."

Regina grunted melodramatically, "That old slob. We should just call out a hit and be done with it."

"Regina!"

"Granny, don't patronise me," she said thinly at the older woman, "You know as well as I that Leopold's more trouble alive than dead. He's been drinking and gambling away his fortune ever since that wife of his got cancer."

"Which is _good_ business for us," retorted a stout, long-haired man with unshaven cheek and chin, "We're a casino, not AA. And besides, he's one of our only customers who likes the snake wine."

"Never understood why anyone would want to drink wine fermented by dead snake," David attempted to diffuse the tension, sounding like he had a thick head cold. Midas gave a bark of laughter and gestured in agreement, "That's what I mean. Good for business."

"He thinks it has curative properties," Mrs Lucas supplied.

"It's gonna take more than snake decay to fix that one."

"David, shouldn't you be resting?" Mary Margaret entered the room.

"My son is fine," the older balding man said sharply, looking at the woman with dislike. David rolled his swollen eyes, making them appear even more bloodshot. Mary Margaret matched George Nolan with an equally unkind glare and stepped to David's side.

"You shouldn't be here."

"I'm fine, I promise," David whispered. In the background, Regina made a gagging noise and said, "You know who shouldn't have been here? That girl you were to keep busy. How did she escape, Mal and I are curious to know."

The blonde laughed in jest with her dark haired friend, "yes, do tell!"

Mary Margaret straightened but kept a hand at her fiancé's shoulder, "She attacked me, if you must know." David made a strangled sound that the room quickly realised was laughter, "Yeah, she does that. Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm sorry, I didn't realise she'd be so angry with your dress," she turned to Gold. His head was bowed and Mary Margaret quickly looked around in alarm. New to the scene, she'd been unaware he was in a dangerous mood. She amended, "Not that it wasn't stunning, maybe just not to her taste...?"

"She's a prisoner," Regina crossed her legs and sat back, "She shouldn't have even been given such a gift. And an expensive one at that. The little piece of street trash probably hasn't even seen that much – "

"Enough."

The red-lipped woman snapped her mouth closed. All attention was on Gold, his soft voice somehow carrying over Regina's mean spirited jibe and Mal's cackles. There was that tangible anger again. Mary Margaret widened her eyes and quickly took her usual seat to David's left. They clasped hands beneath the cloth and watched as Gold continued to keep his eyes downcast, flicking through papers until he alighted on a sheet printed in green. Everyone knew that sheet.

Hopper's profiles were always on green paper. Just as Sidney's reports were always in blue, Granny's scaffolds of the vast catering and housekeeping departments were in pink, Regina's records of the credit and cash of the casino in red, Mal's systematic checks of the underground power generators, cooling systems, water softeners and all other aspects of maintenance were found in purple and Midas' spreadsheets on the accounts in yellow.

Now, as Gold stared at the green, everyone held their breath.

"Hopper."

Eyes turned to the man in question, whose was already turning watermelon at the neck.

"Hopper!"

"Yes sir?" he fumbled, scattering several piles of paper. Regina crinkled her nose and waft her hand in the air, as if waving away his disorderly presence. Mal scoffed in derision. Sidney took pity on him and lent a hand, gathering the sheets that had flown off the table. When Hopper emerged, completely red-faced, he cleared his throat and took hold of his profile with sweaty fingers that stained the paper a darker green.

"Name;" he glanced up and saw only the top of Gold's head then cleared his throat again. At Mary Margaret's encouraging nod, he continued to read, "Miss Beatrix Mariella Gallia –"

"Belle."

"Sir?"

"Her name is Belle."

"Right. Miss...Belle. Age; twenty-seven as of the 27th of December last year, was born in Mount Eliza, Australia. Family; only her father, a war veteran who suffered a severe stroke when she was eighteen and is currently – "

"Skip this useless information!"

"Right you are sir! Um...she spent two years under the apprenticeship of James Hook. Er...I'm so sorry sir, there's such little information on Hook that – I mean, I'm not sure 'apprenticeship' is exactly the right word...um..."

"What do you mean to say?" Mary Margaret eased him gently, frowning at the many 'N/A's beside this Hook character.

"Well...she seemed to learn how to be...a criminal," Hopper stuttered, "From him. There was an academy, of sorts. A club, Neverland, where people would learn skills of the...trade. I guess, we'd call it a trade?"

"A teen gang?" Mrs Lucas said disapprovingly.

Hopper, regaining his composure now that they were on the topic of his expertise, said slowly, "It's not really that simple. It was an organised community of white collar crime, not exactly graffiti or stealing cars. They were mostly young people, Belle joined right after she left school, but their leader was much older. All I know of Hook is that he's been convicted of 23 charges of fraud, 14 of blackmail, 5 obstruction of justices, 10 racketeering claims, 2 instances of extortion, one of money laundering in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, of all places, and finally one case of police impersonation."

"You said you knew nothing about him," said Regina, "That doesn't seem like nothing."

Hopper flushed again her gaze, "Oh well, that's just the thing Ms Mills, I had to get Graham to hack into the electronic records and siphon through their copies before finding the originals. You see, somehow, he'd altered official documents to remove all trace of his personal details. We managed to decode his full name, date of birth and the account number and password to a long defunct bank account in the Dominican Republic."

Regina fingered a pen, musing, "Why do we call him the Huntsman if he can't find anyone we want. Why do you pay him, Gold?"

At Gold's silence, Sidney leaned over and muttered, "Stop teasing him Regina, this isn't the time."

She laughed loudly, "Isn't the time? Oh please, Sidney, don't you think Gold deserves a little questioning?"

At her words, he lifted his head slowly and carefully put down the sheet. Peaking his fingers and staring at her over the top of them, Gold said with raised eyebrows, "By all means, ask away."

Regina's mouth curved upwards, "Well for one, why didn't you tell us you were personally involved with whatshername? Verna, is it?"

Gold's hands rammed the table and he stood up with a crash. Everyone jumped, even Mal's ever-present laughter had stuck in her throat. His face contorted in a look of pure agony and with flashing eyes and a pointing finger he said, "You would be wise not to push the issue. _Please_."

There was a quick intake of breath. Gold never said 'please'. When he did, it usually meant someone was very likely to be fired. With her jaw locked, Regina said in a subdued but unshaking voice, "I simply meant that for us to get a proper idea of what we're dealing with, it would have been kinder to tell us that you had a history with the girl."

At the extra twist of Gold's mouth, Sidney quickly offered, "A history of her having stolen from us previously. That's all Regina meant."

She sat back lazily, "Did I?"

"Yes," Sidney said through gritted teeth, "You did."

Eyeing each employee in turn, until he was quite certain no one else would be so stupid as to challenge him, Gold lowered himself back down and shuffled his papers. "Miss French and I have a history, correct. She cheated me off more than $700,000 dollars. This was back in 2005, during our period of renovation. In the midst of the chaos, I did not notice the missing money until a month afterwards. And yes, I have always wanted to repay her in kind. But let us remember that _I_ did not suggest her presence, it was Mr Hopper who demanded that she was called. It was he who, quite convincingly if I remember that particular board meeting, told us all that no other person could complete our task."

Hopper, only just recovering from his flush from Regina, now blushed anew, "Y-yes."

"So," Gold looked around, "Shall we discuss what we are here to discuss or must we continue this meaningless chatter until one of you loses their head by the aid of my bullet?"

"What about Madam Superior?" David asked.

"She's interviewing a few candidates for our dealer openings," Hopper replied in relief, glad to be talking of business once more. "We at HR think that there's a woman named Swan who's most suitable but you know how Hazul always wants to see them personally. I can brief her during dinner."

"Are we all staying late today?" Mary Margaret asked the room. There were varying degrees of enthusiasm but the general concession was agreement. "We should all eat together!"

George pursed his lips and put an arm around David, "I hardly think so."

Mary Margaret sighed, "I'm just trying to create a sense of unity. I think we're lacking that, don't you?"

Mal groaned and murmured, "Get over yourself, angel."

Regina looked at her friend in amusement, "You think you're above our childish bickering M and M?"

"Don't call me that, Regina, you know how much I dislike it."

"That's _why_ I call you that, dear."

"Do you find enjoyment out of being unkind?"

Mal and Regina looked at each other and shared beaming smiles, "Of course."

Midas stretched his arms above his head and slouched further down his chair, his protruding belly overflowing upon the table top. He scratched his beard and yawned, "You know, von Furstenberg, you might be right about getting a caretaker for these fillies. But do we really need to pay her 30% of the money she cheats back off the cheaters? I mean, Mrs Lucas' been bugging Accounts for money to renovate the kitchens for months now. That 30% could be useful."

"Fillies?" Mal interjected, "And this is why women will never break the glass ceiling. Sexist pigs like you."

Midas toasted her in mock cheer , downed the clear liquor in his cup and then burped in her direction. She turned away in disgust, retrieving a tube of her purple lipstick and reapplying it without the aid of a mirror.

"You know, he makes a point. The Prime Steakhouse grills are disgusting, Chef Jean-Georges says his people won't work their much longer if we don't get a proper ventilation system so the cooks don't go home with oil in their hair," Mrs Lucas suggested taking the opening gap in conversation.

"Oh yes, and on the topic of things we need," Mal cried, "Extra cleaners for the fountains out front. They're our biggest attraction, it would be such a shame to have them clogged up one night. You know I've been begging for a proper recycling system for years now."

"And things we don't need," Regina added, "You should sack a few of your cocktail waitresses on the floor. No need to feel guilty, I'm sure they'd fit right in at a strip club somewhere."

"The Wynn would benefit greatly from a few extra valets, sir," George, assistant manager to Gold's other hotel, said with a wry smile, joining in on the discussion.

"We're in Bellagio," said Regina darkly, "Business should be about the Bellagio."

"Von Furstenberg owns both, as you well know," George returned, but with no amount of ill will. He didn't mind Regina nearly as much as his son's whore.

"Oh well, on the matter of Wynn and Encore. You should get rid of that woman who run's those casinos. Aria...Ariel...whatever her name is. No class, whatsoever. She may as well just walk around wearing seashells over her breasts. What kind of image is that?"

"They do have quite a few...ethnics," Mal said in a stage whisper. "There's that Magnolia, little scrap of a girl, what does she do again?"

"Accounts," said Midas.

"Maybe she can replace you?" Mal smiled emptily back at him, "And also, that dark skinned pretty thing from New Orleans. Tiana?"

Mrs Lucas shook her head, "Brianna of catering and housekeeping. Would you prefer her to replace me too?"

"Oh Granny, you know I mean no harm. We love you, with or without your sloppy little Ruby."

"You watch your tongue, Mallory Millicent Fiche."

Regina hummed tunelessly, "Yes, Wynn does have a lot of exotic young ones..."

Mal giggled, "Maybe that's his type!"

Gold was looking down again, apparently still reading Hopper's green sheets. Regina leaned towards Mal and whispered, "I think his type is Belle."

A gunshot.

Leroy rushed into the room. Mary Margaret screamed and clutched David, then quickly let him go like a hotplate, afraid to touch his bruises. Midas went so far as to sit up straight in his chair and Mrs Lucas had one hand clutched to her heart, the other taking off her glasses to rub at the lenses.

Waving Leroy away, Gold picked up his cane and pushed back his chair, his left hand clutching the smoking gun, "You try my patience."

Without another word or look, he gathered his paperwork and departed. Leroy hesitated a moment after his boss' departure and said to the room, still edgy, and stared at the bullet now lodged in the wall very near to where Mal's head was. After several moments of consideration, he said in a voice dripping with revulsion at the privileged lot trembling before him.

"You suits are all staying back tonight to watch Belle French," his voice permeated the air with effortless volume, "Watch how a pro gets the job done."

OOO

* * *

**Just for fun, I made Gold owner of both Bellagio and Wynn (Steve Wynn designed both, even though in real life, they're owned by different companies).**


	3. Outplayed And Outconned

The first thing Bee noticed as she entered the casino that evening was its emptiness. It seemed that at 7 o'clock, the place had hardly even woken up. Herself, she'd never been one to hit a place during the slow hours, always preferring the chaos of a busy session to pull her cons and grabs. Even with the flashing lights, and ever-present scent of cigarette smoke and drink, the place seemed almost mundane.

Her fingers fiddled with the clasp on a fluffy clutch, a new accessory that had been gratuitously given to her by the Chanel lady after she'd paid her $9,450 and was offered, and declined, to become a Chanel Club member. That she wasn't already shocked the lady. It seemed everything she'd done in the store, from her entrance, her appearance, her money and her final pick of dress, seemed to make the lady's eyes widen just a little more. Really, the dress was perfectly acceptable, rather demure even, if she thought about it.

Thinking about the piece of fabric that was hidden behind a fur-lined pink and grey tweed coat that fell all the way to her shins, made her almost giggle. It was a delirious giggle, having wandered for hours instead of return to her suite with the message upon her mirror. She'd changed in the public bathrooms and was sufficiently exhausted enough to feel backup adrenaline begin to take over her system without any catalyst of adventure or danger.

"Miss Gallium," Leroy appeared at her side like a phantom. She quelled the look of surprise that had jumped to her face and recalled belatedly that it was the name on the driver's license tucked into her new purse.

"Is there a problem, Monsieur?" she blinked.

"Not at all, ma'am," Leroy said, expression becoming overcast once more, "I only meant to suggest that the roulette tables are quite hot tonight, ma'am."

Bee almost laughed. The man really lacked subtlety. She pressed her mouth into a thin line to stop herself from guffawing at his ever darkening expression. Just how surly could he look before he just exploded in a black cloud of dour smoke?

"Oh really?" she said instead, "That's very kind of you."

He gave her a brooding glance and fleeting nod, then very literally faded back into the wall. With the corners of her mouth tugging into a small smile, she wandering over to the rolling wheels of American roulette and wondered just which table was considered particularly 'hot'. With a snort of irritation, she wished that Gold had simply let her stay in his damned meeting so she wouldn't have to play this guessing game with him. If she was supposed to sniff out that elusive 1% who consistently evaded his electronic eyes, why not simply give her a list of suspects? It would make her job easier and get back his money quicker too. Wasn't that the whole point, she thought, approaching a table with several empty seats.

Eyes darting around to find the bearings of all the little black cameras, she hunched over and quickly undid the large crystals that acted as buttons on her coat. With one elegant sweep, she straightened and removed the heavy thing off her shoulders, letting it pile behind her ankles. She indulged herself in thinking all angles were focused on her and let the smirk show. Standing centre screen for several moments, she finally settled down into her chair, kicking the coat underneath the table and asked the dealer for a stack of 20 $1 chips.

The dress was sheer.

Where the Armani piece was dark and bold, shiny to a fault, long and sleek to her figure, the Chanel collection was the complete opposite. Intentionally. Her bodice was nude, almost transparent save for some very conveniently placed embroidery in baby blue thread. Her back and chest and skirt were covered in sequins, arranged in little white flower shapes, and gold beads that shimmered slightly under the casino chandeliers. At her waist was a string of freshwater pearls and below that, at the front of her skirt, a semi-circular patch of feathered tassels, as if she'd tied an apron around her. Identical pastel blue feathers sprouted in tiny sleeves at her shoulders and she finished it with loosely curled hair that fell about her bare neck and a pair of thigh-high pantyhose held up by blue ribboned garters, just visible when the skirt rode up as she sat down.

She looked like a fairy. A slightly risqué fairy at that, but in wisps of feathers and thread and pearls, she was about as far away from Gold's design as possible.

"We don't get your type around here often," the man to her left said in a charmingly mellow voice. He made a pile of four $5 chips in lime green, his designated colour, and placed them on the board. "Are you lost?"

Bee, or Isabelle Gallium, smiled widely at him and placed her own pile of ivory chips onto the number 36. "And what would you do if I was?"

"I would be most eager to help the lady find her way," he chuckled and gave her an enquiring look through two shining blue eyes.

Watching the roulette wheel slow to a stop at number 12 and seeing her bet lose; Bee didn't meet his eyes as she prepared another pile of $4, "Has that line ever worked?"

"No," he replied in good humour, "But it's worth a shot. Women love it when you say they're above all this."

"Well," she placed her bet on the line between number 16 and 17, "I'm not superior enough to say I don't love this place. It's like a second home."

"Been playing long?"

"Seven years, on and off."

He looked at her incredulously, "You started when you were fourteen?"

She laughed, a real laugh from the belly, "Has _that_ line ever worked?"

The man winked, "Sometimes. Oh look."

They both watched the ball seem to want to come to a stop at one of Bee's numbers. But no, it tottered uncertainly on the edge then fell back and settled at 15. She shrugged, "Never had much luck at this game."

"Why do you play it then?" he asked.

"I like to watch the wheel," she said leaning forward with a cheek resting in her hand, "Helps me forget."

He stopped shuffling his chips and looked at her with a crease of worry and a kind little pout, "Forget what?"

Bee stared at the red and black squares spinning and looked at him gently, "I dunno. Must've worked."

He laughed again, removed the black leather glove of his right hand and extended it towards her, "My name's August."

"Isabelle."

"Hello Isabelle," he leaned in conspiratorially, "If that is your real name."

She tensed for a moment, looking carefully but saw only jest. Relaxing, she matched his grin and offered flippantly, "Maybe I should use a pseudonym. My husband doesn't like me coming."

August placed his bets again, "He doesn't sound like much fun."

"Well his money did pay for this dress," she said absentmindedly, glancing up at a camera, "So there's that much at least."

"Gold digger," he teased, giving her a beaming smile to show he meant no harm. Bee caught the careless pun on raised eyebrows, finding a strange sense of comfort with this man. She was about to open her mouth in retaliation when another guest joined them. It was Mary Margaret. Realising she had stared a second too long, Bee quickly turned back to her new acquaintance but he was distracted scooping up a small pot of earnings, having betted on red and the ball landing on the red 9.

"Do you play here much?" she made small talk, keeping the newcomer at the corner of her eye. She was pretending not to know her.

"I'm staying here but really, I hop around. The Bellagio's good for weekdays, always a nice crop, but Red Rock's where the party's at. The Circle Bar." He winked.

Bee simply nodded in understanding, secretly thinking that he didn't seem like a Red Rocker, knowing the place had a reputation for getting particularly rowdy. She'd pocketed many a hundred dollar or so while the games lost control, but this man with his unhurried manner, didn't seem to fit in that highly strung atmosphere.

"Have you been?"

"Not really my kind of place," she lied, keeping in character and simultaneously losing another bet. She was down to her last $4 and wondered whether or not she should restock or move on. Instinct told her that this table was a bust, about as hot as the North Pole. Her eyes found another table a few strides away where the noise was beginning to lift. That seemed the better place to go.

With a heart of reluctance, she bet her last bit and gave August an apologetic look, "Seems this table's not the one for me, I'm gonna look around, you don't mind?"

He shook his head and took her hand again, "Not at all, Miss Gallium. It's been a pleasure," he placed a soft kiss upon her fingers and she offered him a sincere smile, the first truly genuine one in days.

Bee instinctively brushed past Mary Margaret, thinking, and rightly so, that she may have a message. As she neared, still looking at the noisier table, she quickly took the sheet of scrunched up paper from Mary Margaret's fingers, held behind her back. Bee took an empty seat and asked for another 20 $1 chips. As she reached inside her purse to take out a bank bill, she read her clandestine note:

_Circle Bar. 15._

"No more bets," the dealer called, the wheels spinning and then coming to a stop on the number 12. Bee waited for the dealer to give everyone their due earnings and take away the losing bets before placing her own on the colour red – basically a 50% chance of landing on a red number and breaking even. She looked at her pale blue chips, her new designated colour, and thought of how pointless this was, going from table to table with no aim and no ability to hustle. Gold may as well have ordered a lion to just stare at a deer carcass and do nothing.

The temptation to disobey Gold's orders and steal a few chips was quelled as she remembered his fury from earlier in the evening. It just wouldn't do to piss him off any further. Swallowing a sigh, she watched the ball land on black and her $4 disappear. Wow, this had to be the most uninteresting trip to the casino she had ever taken. Glancing a little obviously at her wristwatch, she noted two minutes had passed since Mary Margaret had given her the note. What a slow two minutes.

Skipping the next turn and not bothering to keep up pretences of appearing happy, Bee thought about Jeff and Grace. She wondered if they were waiting in Dubai, where she'd told him to wait. No, that was unlikely. Jeff would know in his gut that something had gone wrong. If he had any sense, he'd be well away from Dubai now, just in case someone had intercepted the text. She hoped that he'd taken Grace somewhere new, somewhere they'd never been so no one could trace her to him.

With a small smile, she imagined them spending Christmas on an island in the Maldives. Safe. Bee had always wanted to go to the Maldives.

"Wake up."

She jerked at the hot breath at her ear. Looking sideways she almost laughed outright at the hideous moustache her new companion was sporting. Only the memory of his recent disproval of her kept her from uttering a sound. Facing forward again, she didn't feel the pressure on her shoulders or the heat at her neck lift, instead Gold whispered, "I don't pay you to fall asleep in your chair."

Bee turned her whole head to get a clearer view of him. That was a mistake. Their lips ended up precariously close and she yanked herself backwards, forcing the blush creeping up her collar to dissolve. Instead of asking what he wanted, or why he was dressed so stupidly when there was little chance any small time gambling tourist would recognise him (how many people knew the proprietors of the hotel they were staying at anyway?), she did as she was told and woke up. Placing her first $4 bet in as many spins, Bee finally began to watch the table and its players.

By the time she had memorised every face, Gold's hands were gone. Almost missing their reassurance, or more precisely, their slightly threatening encouragement, she turned around with panic evident upon her face. He was standing right behind her, leaning slightly to his right upon the cane. At her look, he cocked an eyebrow, "Missed me, dearie?"

She opened her mouth to say something witty but found no words forthcoming, spinning back around, she hoped her ears weren't flaming.

Forcing focus upon the table, she counted. Seven players. Seven colours. Pale blue being herself. Then there was pink, lime green, maroon, orange, ivory white and navy blue. Her eyes darted to their relative positions upon the board. Pink, green, maroon, orange, white, navy and her own pale blue.

"No more bets."

The ball rolled. She watched its white sphere spin, and spin. The noise of her surrounds dulled. Her eyes darted, watching the faces around her, and watching their chips. Pink, green, maroon, orange, white, navy. One man licked his lips. A woman brushed her left hand through her hair. Another man fiddled with the cuff of his left sleeve. Another woman blinked twice very fast. The ball began to slow. Bee glanced at it, pre-empting the drop into number 34 three seconds before it even happened. Two players said something and laughed to each other.

There was an eruption. Someone had won 35-1 odds, having bet 34. Bee looked at the winning square. 4 orange chips. Valued at $5 each. $700 winnings. Plus her original $20. It was the woman who had blinked very fast. She was beaming, calling a waitress for a drink. Bee ignored the signs of celebration, staring instead at the other players and the chips. The dealer paid out, 1-1 winnings to the man on maroon and navy cuff fiddler. Pink, green, white and pale blue were taken away.

Hands reached out to place their bets again. Bee didn't bother, not wanting to be distracted. The woman didn't bet, sipping on her cocktail instead. She played lightly with her huge pile of orange chips. Pink, green, marron, white and navy. No orange.

"No more bets."

The ball rolled.

Bee watched. Mr Navy fiddled with his cuffs again. A woman pursed her lips. The two players continued to talk and laugh. Orange lady sipped.

"No more bets, sir!" the dealer said as a man with a handful of pinks stretched forward to attempt to bet after the time. He apologised profusely and placed them back on his pile. Bee scanned the table, her memory flawless in its layout. There! On Reds. An extra four maroon chips that guessed the ball would land on a red number. They certainly hadn't been there last she looked. She stared at the man opposite. He fiddled with his pink chips and watched the wheel. Bee dared it one glance and again, already knew it would land on number 12. That was a red number.

Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly as she watched the man in maroon take in his 1-1 earnings again. Earnings that she could have sworn he hadn't put down. He quickly went back to talking to his friend.

Bee did a quick tally:

Navy man fiddled with his cuffs and had lost both bets.

Orange woman won $700 on number 34 and did not bet on the second spin.

Pink man tried to bet after table was closed and four mysterious maroon chips appeared. He also lost both bets.

Maroon man spoke to his friend continuously through the game and had won 1-1 odds on both bets. The first spin he'd placed them himself, the second time someone else had put them down in his stead.

Friend of Mr Maroon was playing with green chips and had lost both bets.

The woman playing with white chips had lost both bets.

And she herself on light blue had lost the first and had been disinclined to bet on the second spin.

The dealer spun the wheel again and Bee watched as frantic bets were made. There was a slight halt in conversation between Mr Maroon and Mr Green. Maroon once again went for only a colour bet. Again, four chips on red. Orange lady bet on number 17. Navy fiddled with his cuffs.

"No more bets."

As they withdrew, Bee put the board to short term memory and watched each of them. The woman in white was on her last pile of chips and looked ready to leave the table. She was already half-standing, prepared to lose. Navy fiddled some more. She noticed silver cufflinks with the emblem of some company or another embossed onto them. So a man on a business trip with time to kill before bed and tomorrow morning's meeting. She discounted him too.

The ball would land on number 11. Three seconds before it fell, Bee quickly turned to peer at her fellow players. Maroon and Green chatted. Pink tossed his chips. Orange sipped. It landed on 11. Everyone lost.

Bee inhaled deeply and waited for the next bets to be placed. She decided to add a few of her own to deflect suspicion and only half-heartedly counted the probability and odds in her head like she had been taught. She placed $4 on red, $4 on a group of six numbers and $4 on number 3 for the hell of it. Players were kidding themselves if they thought there was any pattern to the roulette ball.

Ms Orange was half finished with her drink and put it aside, finally stopping her incessant sipping. White left the table. Navy once again bet in a completely random manner and fussed with his sleeves. Green made a corner bet of four numbers and returned to talking to Maroon. Maroon chose black this time. Pink threw his chips from right hand to left and then slowly placed them on the table beside maroon on the black rectangle.

"No more bets."

The ball rolled. She watched carefully. Green called for a drink. Pink folded his arms. Orange blinked twice. Bee glanced at the wheel. The ball fell onto number 5. All players lost.

And again, the pattern was repeated until their dealer said, "No more bets."

Her focus unwavering, Bee watched again as the little white ball rolled upon the painted wood. Green and Maroon spoke unceasingly. Pink fondled with his chips. Maroon had his bet on the colour red. She glanced at the wheel and realised the ball would fall on 35. In that split second, Green had split his drink. Maroon jumped from his seat.

"This suit! Do you know how much this suit costs?"

Green was flowing with apologies, his hands reaching for a handkerchief and dabbing awkwardly at the other man's trousers. Bee watched the proceedings for two moments then quickly looked back at the table. There! An extra four chips. Maroon chips on the number 35. Maroon, who only ever bet on colours, had placed extra chips again.

The ball fell. Number 35. $700 for Mr Maroon. Bee was almost certain she knew the pattern, watching as floormen swooped in and offered their services.

"Sir? You've won, sir," the dealer said, pushing the chips towards Maroon. With a blank look, he stared at the wheel, and then at the square with his two maroon chips. A big smile spread over his face.

"Ah," Green said in relief, "See? Enough for some dry cleaning. I'm real sorry mate, really am. I dunno what happened."

As Maroon conceded to be taken away by the floor persons to a bathroom, he and Green said their goodbyes. Bee smiled. So the whole friend act had been a play by Maroon. He and Green were strangers, making conversation to draw attention and subsequently, deflect any suspicions that he could be past posting – betting after the ball has stopped. For, if he was, wouldn't his 'friend' have seen? And besides, Maroon had been too caught up in discussion to have been thinking much about the table.

There was the rub. Orange's win looked like luck. Maroon's, a much more suspicious win, was explained away as luck too – he was in heavy conversation, and then, in the time when he would be cheating, he'd been standing up yelling as he wiped alcohol off his pants. Bee smirked some more.

That left pink. She sat still and waited. A dozen spins later and with new players at the table, Maroon finally joined them in new pants. Bee watched carefully as he approached the table. For someone who had just won much money, he had a very fixed stare upon his face. None of the heedless joy that orange had showed. She was a much better actress, Bee thought.

Maroon approached with a good side-on view of Orange's face. Bee watched both expressions as their dealer called for a stop to bets. The ball rolled, slowed and settled on number 2. Ms Orange blinked twice. Unable to contain the smile on her face now, she noticed Pink unfold his arms. Ah, so now he was 'open for business', as they called it.

The next bets were placed. Bee knew exactly where the ball would land and acted accordingly. She asked the dealer for 20 chips, each $25 in value. The wheel was spun.

"No more bets."

"Ah," Maroon finally reached the table, his calculated steps placing him on the opposite, and furthest, side from the dealer. "I wanted to thank you, for the winnings I got here."

"Are you cleaned up, sir?" she said, gesturing to his suit.

"Yes, yes," he smiled and leaned across the table. With his right hand, he passed her a tip of $20 and with his left, he carefully placed pink chips on number 32. As he straightened to the thanks of the happy dealer, Bee saw the four pink on top of her giant stack of pale blues.

"Number 32," the dealer said, smile still upon her face. Then she looked down the table to the number in question and saw the enormous winnings upon it. Bee simply shrugged at her enquiring glance. She called over the pit boss, obviously expecting foul play. Not that Bee was denying there was foul play, not at all. Just simply that the cheating hadn't been hers, for once.

"What's the meaning of this?" the boss said.

Bee grinned, "I bet $500 and if my calculations are correct, and they usually are, then that means I've just won $17,500."

The table erupted, many drunken patrons calling her several colourful names. Ms Orange and Mr Pink stared, sharing a worried look. Bee copied Orange's double blink and beamed at her. The woman blanched. Glancing sideways at Gold, standing a few paces behind her with an expression of greatest mirth, she suddenly allowed herself to relax and released a very real breath of liberation. It seemed her sins in the meeting room were forgiven, or at least, forgotten, in the face of her more recent successes. The casino rushed forth in a torrent of noise. It felt like she'd just unpopped her ears after stepping off a plane. That necessary little ache that formed between her left eyebrow and forehead gently eased away.

Orange and Pink excused themselves in the fuss over Miss Gallium's winnings.

Bee wondered if Gold even realised exactly how he had been cheated. The pit boss seemed to want to reprimand her when a crackle from his walkie talkie drew his attention. He placed it to his ears, brow creased in befuddlement before a slow dawning realisation broke across his face. He seemed very happy to find out the real circumstances of her appalling win. Looking at her with new knowledge he even offered a small conspiratorial smile as he whispered to the dealer. What an improvement on gloomy Leroy.

"I'm leaving, would you cash it for me?" she said lightly. The dealer chuckled and began to count of the bills, passing them across the table to the dismay of the other players. Exiting the stage before anyone could accost her, she watched Pink and Orange hold a hurried conversation with Maroon, their three faces nervous.

"Very funny," Gold joined her side, matching her leisurely pace as she shadowed the cheats.

"I thought so."

"And the dress?"

Bee hesitated, not wanting to bring up anything that could remind him of his earlier anger. They headed out of the casino towards the elevators. The noise level dropped significantly.

"It seems that I was a little too presumptuous?" Gold offered in an impossibly small voice.

Bee stared at his generous moustache and somehow found his words even more baffling than his disguise. "Are you apologising, Gold?"

"Gotthold."

"Huh?"

"My name's Gotthold," he said so softly it was almost a whisper.

She laughed lightly, "Okay..."

After a moment, he seemed to register her doubtful tone. "It's not my cover, madam Belle. My name's Gotthold von Furstenberg."

Keeping her eyes firmly on her two targets, she said sceptically, "Right."

"I hate it."

She looked at him through her peripherals and muttered, "So why tell me?"

It was his turn to hesitate, "Since your parents named you Beatrix..."

Bee guffawed, unladylike and rather loudly, "Oh, I see. You know my hated name, I know yours. This is really becoming a rather good apology. Have you been practicing?"

He huffed but appeared satisfied. Shaking her head slightly, as they neared the elevators, Bee quickened her pace and intentionally left Gold behind. Glowing from a mixture of many good events, she approached a large group of happy tourists waiting around the lifts.

"Would you like a photograph?" she offered cheerily, bounding up to them, the feathers at her shoulders fluttering and her sequins and beads catching the golden chandelier light. The group giggled and agreed, passing her a camera. "Anyone else have a camera?" Two more were passed to her and the group huddled together to pose.

Bee juggled the metal objects in her hands and walked to Orange, Pink and Maroon, who took several moments to recognise her, having only seen her torso at the table.

"Here, those people want a photo, can you help?" she offered each one a camera, purposefully laughing and dangling them by their cords. "Who wants which?"

They stared at her helplessly; confused and probably still smarting from the adrenaline high of having pulled off the con, and then a huge low at realising they probably weren't going to get away with it. She swung the cameras around and switched them. Orange attempted to grab one but the swinging made it impossible to take hold of. Her other hand, holding her handbag, came to help and as she did, Bee quickly took the handle from her.

"Oh, let me," she said, passing Orange the camera and waving her in the direction of the waiting group. Bee then gave both Maroon and Pink a camera, lifting their coats and a laptop bag off their load as well. They joined Orange, who was carefully and rather confusedly, snapping a picture. Bee walked over to Gold, leaning against the wall and looking like he had smelled something unpleasant. After a beat, she recalled that it was the face he made when trying very hard not to laugh.

"What's so funny?" she said, holding up her booty.

"They just handed you the stolen chips."

"It's all psychology," Bee flipped some of her hair off her shoulder and swung the laptop bag over it. "I approach them, laughing, talking, the opposite of what they saw me as at the table. They're confused. I take the confusion to explain some circumstance to them. There's a common fear of doing wrong after you pull off a con, this idea that you have to do everything properly so as not to draw attention to yourself."

At Gold's continuing to look perplexed she explained, "So you say, 'hey, there's some people wanting a photo, don't make them wait – it's impolite'. Now after walking out with $2,100 worth of chips, they're practically fighting to redeem themselves. In their eagerness to help, I just take their bulky stuff."

They both looked over at the con-artists being thanked by the family and friends who moved forward to take back their cameras. "The group is a distraction. The cameras are a prop."

As the doors opened and the people filed into the elevators, their three targets finally realised they'd lost their hard-earned chips. Gold took that opportunity to remove his disguise and step forward, his cane rapping upon the marble.

"Missing something?"

Orange, Maroon and Pink swung around, looking at Bee who was smiling innocently. They gaped in horror as she opened the woman's purse and tutted as she carded her fingers through the colourful discs. She dug further down into the bag and retrieved a small wallet. Flipping it open she took out a California state driver's licence.

"This is some shoddy work," Bee mused, lifting the card up to the artificial light and peering at it. "Firstly, the hologram is slightly off centre. The license numbers from Cali are in red. Always. This is dark blue, very careless."

Gold stepped over and took the card from her fingers, inspecting it. Without needing to look at it again, Bee recited, "Four digits, hyphen, three digits, hyphen, two digits, hyphen, three digits, hyphen, one digit. Given the structure, I can tell you're using a Florida license. And by logical extension, you're all from Florida too. Correct?"

They stared back. Bee only smiled some more and continued, "R500-001-78-603 tells the license was previously, and most probably legally, owned by a woman born on March 23rd, which would make her...thirty-four years, I believe. Her first two initials were A.A. and her last name began with the letter R followed by a nasal N – off the top of my head that could be Ryan, Rowan, Rooney or Reina."

"What are you saying?" said Maroon very slowly, his eyes wide at her monologue.

"Only that the name on this says 'Kathryn Grift' not Anne Amy Rhine or Alexandra Annie Reno," she took the card off Gold, who had given up trying to force information out its laminate when Bee was obviously much more skilled at the job, "And Grift, really? You know it's only funny to call yourself I.M. Conner when you actually have a fair chance of succeeding."

Ms Orange, Kathryn, lowered her head and was a good enough sport to look thoroughly chastised. Bee deposited her purse in Gold's confounded hands and dug into the pockets of a white trench coat. She opened the wallet and flipped through. Her eyes caught on a white and blue logo upon a strip of card about the shape and size of a clothes tag.

"Twin Cities Hospital," she read, feeling the quality of the paper. She lifted it up to her nose and took a whiff, glancing up at Mr Maroon, "This is real."

The man practically had storm grey eyes bulging out of his head. He combed trembling fingers through ash blond hair and could only stare as Bee bent the card around her two thumbs. It arched and snapped back into position with a perfect elasticity that she knew was not a cheap knock off from the streets.

"Dr. Frank Whale MD, general surgery, Niceville, Florida."

Gold sneered at the city name, "Are you certain its real, madam?"

"Positive," she muttered, the smile dropping from her face as something triggered a memory.

"Where is Niceville, it sounds pleasant," Gold quipped at the frozen doctor.

Bee answered, staring off into space, "On the Gulf of Mexico, near Pensacola in Florida Panhandle."

"Pray tell, is it on Storybrooke Lane?" the man added, a sadistic smile upon his lips. He had realised that his pretence of good humour was frightening the cornered thieves more than any snarling could have. They were afraid Gold would simply started cackling and ask them why they were so serious. "Where all the fairytale characters are so miserable despite working at expensive private hospitals that they must find entertainment in robbing my casino?"

Maroon glanced sideways at his partners and realised he was expected to answer. "No, sir. We're very sorry, sir."

Gold really did cackle. He was about to say that they had not even begun to feel sorry when Bee abruptly dumped the coat across his elbows and ripped opened the laptop bag. She retrieved the last fake ID and fanned them in her hands like third card poker.

"I do hope that you didn't pay ridiculous amounts of money for these," she took Kathryn's and waved it, "Yours is the wrong colour," she took Dr Whale's, "Yours says you're female," and finally she shook her latest addition and addressed Mr Navy, "And yours says you were born in 1956 but has your age at 24 and expired ten years ago in 2002."

Actual tourists excused themselves past the group to reach the elevators and Gold took the gap in Bee's domineering conversation to suggest they take this to the back rooms. He seemed to mutter something to himself and in less than thirty seconds, three rather surly looking men appeared and veered the hustlers away. Bee frowned, her happiness at having broken their con and won $17,500 had dissipated like mascarpone on a hot tongue. The adrenaline kick she'd gotten was falling fast. While in her focused daze and then interrogating their targets, she'd forgotten her exhaustion. Now, every part of her ached.

"Miss French," Gold took the ID's from her wavering tips and tucked them away into his trousers. "Are you aware you still have four and a half thrilling hours ahead of you?"

The thought made her even wearier. She checked her watch. 8:30pm. It made her recall Mary Margaret's note that wanted to meet her in fifteen minutes at the Circle Bar. It was now very much past that time and she returned to the casino with a heavy heart. How many more times could she spite the woman? That woman who doused herself in white and never had a harsh line upon her face. Bee sighed, once, a very long time ago, she had been a similar creature. But many things had changed since then, for better or for worse.

"Don't hurt them," she found herself saying on the threshold to the casino. The words came more from instinct than thought. An ominous idea just struck her. It had been coiled very tightly around her gut and had begun to loosen when she'd first read Whale's hospital ID. Over the last five minutes, painstakingly slow, that tendril had made its way up into the centre of her mind. Unintelligible emotions and alarms bells were finally starting to make sense.

Gold threw his moustache into a hotel bin and eyed her strangely. Bee had frozen, only just managing to keep sheer panic from bubbling to the surface. In a robotic monotone, she heard herself saying, "I need them conscious. I'm not done."

"Not done, my dear?"

Bee inhaled loudly, her shoulders moving dramatically. She straightened her back and forced a winning smile upon her face, clutching at the Chanel purse with digging nails and turned her sparkling teeth to Gold, "Not even close, sir."

His tilted his head as they halted at the gaping casino doors. A firm hand lifted her chin up and scraped lightly over her jaw. She held her breath, the smile in place, straining, "What?"

"You've always been very perceptive," he looked from her right eye to her left, leaning in close, "Tell me what you think of our prisoners, dearie."

Bee was silent.

"Tell me."

"You won't like it," she said. Gold's pinch across her jaw only tightened. In an attempt to control the shrillness of her voice, Bee murmured, "I made a mistake."

"How?" he lowered his voice too.

"I forgot a rule."

He creased his forehead. Bee closed her eyes in dismay, "Never leave the floor until the con is over. Never exit the field of play until the game is done."

Gold practically forced her to look at him with hard shakes of her head, "That means?"

"A casino is like a river. You never step into the same river twice. The invisible changes in the air that you adapt to without a second thought, the way your senses are alert, the way you swim with the rapids and let unpredictable events take you – that is the key to a good hustler," she was almost pleading with him to understand, so that she wouldn't have to spell it all out. "When you leave the arena, all of that work disappears. Anything can change. In a split second, someone hits a slots jackpot and all cameras are on him. A con artist takes the opportunity to swipe $5,000 from the craps table."

He continued to give her a narrow, but blank, stare. She bit her lip, "Please don't make me say it."

"I find I dislike your riddles, dearie," he growled.

"We were tricked. Conned."

"Elaborate."

"You're compromised."

"Elaborate further."

"Run up to your eyes in the sky and watch over the tape from the last one and half hours. Watch every big winner, every misadventure on the floor – no matter how small," she began to speak quicker, her mind spinning, "Yes...yes, do that. Watch where everyone is. Watch everyone's face. The real hustler just robbed you blind."

"My dear," Gold released her with a disgust sneer, "Are you telling me that we chased three red herrings to the elevators while the real grifter used the chance to make a play?"

She nodded, "They're bold. They sacrificed the $2,100 for a bigger payoff. No self-respecting hustler would be noble enough to let go more than 10%. I suggest you look at anyone who won in the neighbourhood of 20 grand or more. Or perhaps you'll find while double checking the cashier's cage, that you're missing $20,000."

"You disappoint me," he snarled, "Hopper was mistaken."

"I'm sorry."

He had turned to go and laughed through his teeth, "I very much doubt that, my dear."

She shook her head, staring at the thorny rose vines that twisted upon the marble tiles. "Not sorry for you. For myself."

"Ah, self-pity," he sang, "What an admirable trait."

She raised flaming eyes, "Do you know how long it's been since someone's out conned _me_?"

A fleeting expression of something uncertain seemed to fly across Gold's features. He stepped back towards her, slowly, deliberately, "Let me guess...when you were twenty years old?"

Bee only just managed to keep her eyes from filling with unwanted, weak-willed, tears. She knew she must look a wreck, her face all twisted up, her front teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Turning on her heels, she wheeled around and stalked back into the casino. Yes, it was an alien place. Just one and a half hours had changed so much. There were double the amount of people. The dealer who'd worked at the hot roulette table had changed shifts. August had either left or moved tables.

August.

Bee thought of his gentle lips brushing the back of her hand. She allowed herself a tiny smile in remembrance of his farewell.

_"Not at all, Miss Gallium. It's been a pleasure."_

That slow tendril of awareness suddenly flared into unholy focus. Bee sat herself at a blackjack table to hide her legs giving out. She'd tumbled into first base, the farthest seat on the right side and was dealt her cards first. Mechanically going through the motions of asking for chips, placing them in the betting circle and looking at her hand, Bee barely even registered the game.

Instead, her mind whirled.

There was a con that Jeff had architected once. It was when she'd just met him, the struggling single father, amateur magician, who'd passed out on magic mushrooms and left his three year old daughter to fend for herself for four days and four nights. He'd lost both his custody of Grace and his huge, modern expressionist house. Bee had stumbled across a desperate soul who spoke more fiction than fact. He'd once outlined to her a con, a massive con that would give them the big break they needed.

"Hit me," Bee said to the dealer, tapping two fingers on the felt. Her Queen and six received an eight and she busted with 24, free to have her mind wander every which way.

It had been the night after one of their very first cons. They'd hauled home a pay check of 350 solid dollars, which they used to consider very healthy. Back then, just students of Neverland, they never dared hit casinos. No, instead, they scammed little cafes and corner stores in what Hook used to call 'pillaging for pennies'. Still, after a day of consistent effort, $175 each was enough for food, toilet paper and rent. In celebration of their earnings, Jeff had popped one of his more expensive champagnes, nothing near to what they now sipped on, but fair game back them. He'd looked over at her with those dancing eyes of his and spun his top hat around.

"What if there was one game that could make us," he'd whispered, flushed and excited. "Just one more con that would make every one of our dreams come true? Would you do it?"

She'd giggled at him and reclined in that sky blue tea dress she used to love, and had lost long ago. She'd called him a fool and said that they must make for bed. She'd even gone so far as to strike him lightly on the cheek with the back of her hand – the greatest form of violence she'd been able to imagine. It felt like another liftime. It _was_ another lifetime.

"If that existed, don't you think Hook would've done it already?" she'd said sensibly, forever the grounded, reasonable one.

"Hooky? He's about as inventive as a rock," Jeff had snorted, flipping his hat upon his head. It had rested at an angle and made him look quite bizarre. "No, this needs imagination. Pure imagination."

Hands always fidgeting, he took the hat off his head and placed it upon their cluttered table. Shoving aside the junk, he put it top down, upon the wood and gave it a flick, like turning a spinning top. "We'll begin, with a spin."

"You're mad."

Jeff had grinned with bared teeth, "We're travelling in a world of _my_ creation, Bee. None of Hook's boring ol' stuff. Hold your breath, make a wish."

"What?" she'd giggled and tried to stop it. Jeff grabbed her wrist to keep her from touching it as he gave it another tug to keep it turning.

"What do you want, most in the world?" he'd looked so urgent she had humoured him and closed her eyes, wishing into the spinning hat. "So?"

"I can't tell you, otherwise it won't come true!" she laughed, tugging herself out of his grasp and recalling a childhood truth.

"Alright," he grinned, "Now that our wishes are in the hat, I'll wear it always – on every con we do."

"You'll look ridiculous, Jeffy."

He made his lips into a fish pout and elongated his neck, looking down his nose at her. Then in an impossibly pompous Welsh accent, he said, "Ridiculous enough for Sir Jefferson Wonders the Fifth, direct descendent of Llewelyn the Great, owner of Jefferson Brewery and Co.?"

Bee had laughed so hard, seeing her nobody friend pretend to be a somebody. He carefully placed the top hat upon his head and she really was convinced she saw nobility on his smoothed brow. Looking up at their ceiling, she'd acquiesced to hearing his great plan. "Fine, Sir Jefferson, what dost thou be thinking?"

"A casino."

"You're kidding."

"No. A casino, the only place on earth where cash is hard and real and kept all under one roof."

"We'll go to prison."

He thought for a moment then took off his hat with a sweeping bow, "We'll go to prison _rich_!"

She'd crossed her arms in false disapproval and tried to seem stern, but Bee had been a stranger to being bad humoured and quickly fell into a wide smile. "I'm listening."

"We need a distraction," he looked at the hat in his hand and placed it back on the table, spinning it. "I'll call it a Spin. We'll begin, with a spin!" he echoed his earlier words. "Confuse and bemuse and bedazzle."

"You're singing again."

"'Tis the time for songs m'lady," he passed her the hat and she accepted it with a giggle, running her hands along the finely made velvet. He watched her fingers move over the material and raised his own pointer in dramatic epiphany, "And then we shall have...Velvet!"

"That's not very catchy," she chided and continued to feel along the brim. "Let's call it the Touch. A Spin and then a Touch."

"Ah, and the lady is corrupted," he'd shaken the outstretched finger in her face in mock chastisement, "Yes. A light touch to make what once was normal, abnormal. A single domino out of line to make the whole set fall. And then we shall have," he stuck a hand inside the hat, "Satin."

"The Smooth," she corrected, "to sooth the Spin. To stop the confusing from seeming chaotic."

"Yes," he mused, "The Smooth to keep everything staying in our control. Confusion can cause unforeseen troubles. We must have a way to escape that, or to quell it."

"And then?"

"The Assistant."

"What?"

"A magician always has a pretty assistant to provide a distraction," he said simply, "Someone to play with the audience, to direct their eyes away, and to gather information. Where is that one man sitting? Is that emergency exit door rigged with alarms?"

"I see," she'd said, "And finally the Play. The actual con after all the set up and misdirection."

Jeff tutted, "No, no. The Play is natural. A win here, a win there, a loss perhaps. Nothing big, nothing out of the ordinary. Just a couple of flowers hidden in your sleeve or a coin appearing behind someone's ear. Very simple. Very normal."

"So what's last?"

He had stood up, all but pranced about the room and bellowed with laughter, "Only something so divine, so miraculous that it must seem like _magic_! So unconnected to every other event, so strange and unpredictable that none of the pieces fit together and even the most cautious and sceptical observer can't see the pattern! The masterly finale, the inexplicable _dénouement_!"

"I don't get it."

"When the $300 you make turns to $300,000 and the $300,000 turns to $300,000,000! And nobody can _fault_ you!" Jeff had run up to her and placed a fist inside his hat, retrieving an imaginary object, "That is the Rabbit!"

"Rabbit?"

"The rabbit out of the hat!" he'd gushed, "I'm going to call it the Wonder's Theory of Rabbits!"

"Like Hook's Theory of Locks?"

"You're comparing my great con to Hooky's handbook on lock picking?" he'd mock pouted, "I'm insulted. This is much better. Something worthy of Sir Jefferson Wonders the Fifth and his beautiful assistant Bee. La Belle! We shall call you beauty herself and no one will be able to keep their hands off you."

He'd pulled her from her seat and danced her around their two by two shoebox room until she was dizzy with giggles and hope. "Am I to be Belle Gallia?"

"No," Jeff deposited her on a moth-bitten couch and crouched on the floor at her feet. "Gallia...like the Gauls of old France? We'll call you Miss French. La beauté fran_çaise. The French beauty: Belle French!"_

_"We should open an academy," she laughed as he pretended to kiss her hands like a gentleman, "Like Neverland."_

_"We'll call it Wonderland! Mr and Mrs Wonders, the infamous hustlers, feared by casinos the world over!" He'd placed the hat back on his head and pantomimed a circus ringmaster, calling in the gathering crowds._

"Ma'am? Ma'am?"

Bee shook herself and stared blankly at the dealer. Her cramped apartment melted into the bustle of the Vegas casino. Blinking rapidly to dispel the confusion, she looked bewildered at her hand. It was so unlike herself to lose focus. "Um, I surrender."

The dealer stared at her cards. It was a face up game and Bee was holding a nine and an ace, which gave her an easy twenty. She had high odds of beating the House. "Are you sure, ma'am?"

She stared at the other two players. They stared back in equal measure. Glancing up at the eyes in the sky, Bee awkwardly excused herself from the table, scooped up the chips, tottering over to the bathrooms. She threw her purse on one of the bench tops and the white chips in her left fist scattered to the floor. Her arms shook and she locked her elbows on either side of the sink, very close to dry heaving.

Head bowed, she stared into the mirror and saw someone who she didn't recognise. She'd foregone on the make up, not having brought any with her and wanting to be out of the bird caged Via Bellagio as soon as she could. Her eyes were ringed in grey, bagged and tired. Her lips looked cracked, her skin a strange mixture of deathly pale and flushed around her cheeks and temples. Bee looked unnerved and out of control.

She was reminded of that frightened eighteen year old girl who had stepped into a pristine office building in Ann Arbor. Her legs had almost failed her at the sight of such splendour. Back then, a clean, glass-walled building was the most luxurious thing in the world. Knees knocking and feet hurting from having walked the 6 hours from west Detroit, not wanting to spend any extra money on a bus fare, Bee had practically slumped into a pile in the elevator.

The girl who entered Neverland had also died there. The woman who walked out had graced the world with her soft smiles and sweet nature for only two short, precious years. Then that woman had made a terrible mistake by coming to Las Vegas, on a whim. That woman had died too. All honey and sifted sugar, she was lured by the glamour and devoured by the grime. A different creature had escaped the city of temptations and now that she had returned, though she'd sworn never to do so, Bee was hunched over a public bathroom sink and looking like that little girl who had wanted so much to help her sick Papa.

"Belle."

She wiped two lonely tears from her cheeks and found a smile from somewhere, "Mary Margaret."

"You look..."

"I'm fine," she turned on the tap and busily washed her hands. The cold of the water soothed her, brought on some clarity. "I'm sorry I missed our meeting."

"That's okay," the woman said, lifting a finger to her right ear. Bee saw a small device nestled in the crook, "They told me Mr von Furstenberg was on the floor."

Wishing to delay the moment when she would have to re-enter the casino and deal with the noise and the alcohol and the super charged atmosphere that took all her concentration to manage, she slowly wiped her hands on a towelette and said, "We started off on the wrong foot."

"Yes. _You_ did."

Amused and relieved to see a little spitfire from the woman, Bee's smile relaxed. "Yes. Me. I...beat up your fiancé, destroyed your nail beds and stood you up at a bar. You're too kind to a monster."

As they exited the little tiled room and approached the Circle Bar, a circular bar in the centre of every casino, Mary Margaret said, "You were under duress. You're forgiven."

"Duress?"

"It mustn't be easy returning to Vegas," she caught the attention of a waitress, "My usual. And for you?"

"Something cheap."

"It's on me," Mary Margaret said. Seeing that Bee wasn't going to rescind on her order, she said, "How about some Del Maguey Tobala mezcal?"

"That's only available in Club Privé," the waitress said uneasily.

Mary Margaret thinned her lips and the woman hurried off obediently. Bee observed the scene carefully. Obviously the woman in white who sat with her hands folded and her blouse buttoned to her neck, had much sway in the resort. The waitress was almost afraid. Yet Bee hadn't even seen her raise her voice or lift a hand. That was power to be envious of.

"What did you want to tell me?"

"Only that you should be careful of Pinocchio," Mary Margaret explained, "The man you were talking to at the first roulette table. He's a compulsive liar who lives Downtown and likes to pick up wealthy married women in our casino. We haven't found a good enough reason to ban him from the establishment because of course, it's all very consensual."

"I wasn't going to be distracted," Bee said a little resentfully.

The other woman simply turned to the returning waitress and took the two drinks from the very platter, graciously serving Bee herself. "We knew that. But it wouldn't be good for you to appear on his radar. If he notices your presence in the casino every night then he might mention it to the wrong ears. Hopefully he's forgotten you."

Bee looked at the shot of liquid, a delicate rose-gold in colour, and brought it to her mouth. She recoiled at the smell, like burning tires and car exhaust. Wincing slightly, she tried again, prepared, and thought she could distinguish something that reminded her of vanilla, or butter, and something else reminiscent of mint leaves.

"You looked like you needed something strong," Mary Margaret smiled over the rim of her own champagne.

"Right," she played with the liquid for awhile, hesitant to place traffic smog to her lips, "David told me you stole off him?"

"Oh," she said in surprise, "Yes. I stole a ring."

"Did you return it?"

She grinned and wriggled the fourth finger on her left hand, "But he gave it back."

Take a tentative sip, Bee said, "You stole your own engagement ring?" Beneath the overwhelming taste of smoke and earth and spice, she could distinguish the fruitiness of sugared melons, and mangoes. It was very oily and left a long bittersweet tang on her tongue. Much like cinnamon ribbon candy dipped in whiskey and syrup.

"Well it wasn't my engagement ring then," she said, "But he thought it would be sweet to give it back to me when he proposed. He said that now, everything he owned was mine to use as I pleased."

"You're a romantic," Bee said, downing the shot and pouring herself another, finding she rather liked the spicy, sweet and very rich taste of the mezcal.

"Aren't you?"

"No."

"You never dream of your own happy ending?"

Bee looked at her sceptically, "Even you have to know that I'm not going to get one. No matter how this ends, there's no fairytale wedding at the end of it for me."

"You're very sure of that."

"Yes," she gulped her second shot and began to pour another. "How much alcohol is in this?"

"45%."

"That's probably not good," Bee said.

"Yes, you should stop," Mary Margaret said eyeing the third full glass.

"I still have three and a half hours of this," she muttered, "I'll need a little bit more in my legs to keep going until one in the morning."

With the third gulp, Mary Margaret had taken the bottle and placed it on the floor. Bee gave her a bitter look and stared at the thing. It really was delicious. In preparation for their latest (and apparently last) con, she and Jeff had come to the Bellagio almost every night for two weeks. She wondered why he'd always ordered the vodka when there was this little delicacy. Standing up, Bee thanked her companion and made her way down the bar steps back onto the floor. Her right leg seemed to have a mind of its own and nearly gave out under her. The soles of her feet felt on fire, like she was walking on hot coals.

"That's why," she muttered, closing her eyes to stop the world spinning. The noise of the place seemed muffled again. This time though, it wasn't due to her own concentration, but because the drink was starting to mess with her head. The alcohol was burning through her system like fire. Her abdominals clenched in pain and she hiccupped, trying to grasp what part of the casino she was in. There was the sound of roulette balls hitting the polished wood and she managed to find the table she'd won at.

"$25," she heard herself drawl, and received her pile of 20 $25 chips in return for 5 purple bills. Strangely, Bee knew that they were supposed to be green. The mezcal was doing weird things to her brain. She blinked several times and shook her head.

In less than half an hour, Bee lost all $500 and she stumbled uncertainly from the table, knowing that there was something she should be doing. The world seemed to move pass her in a rush of gold and light. In dismay, she realised she'd left the expensive new tweed coat back at the roulette table and turned around to fetch it when someone blocked off her path.

"Ma'am," Leroy said, a tight grip around her forearm, "I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you to exit the premises."

Bee's lids drooped, she felt so very tired, and slumped into his body, flush against him. She noted herself being half-dragged across the floor. Sleep was intruding on the edges of her consciousness but some stubborn part of her forced it back. It told her that she needed to keep alert or she might never wake up. She felt very cold. Yet her insides were scorching.

"Belle."

_That voice._

"_Belle._"

With the greatest effort, she peeled her eyes open and found herself lying on her back, on the ground, in a room full of screens that glowed with artificial white light. Hovering over her, with his hands shaking her shoulders, was a lined and anxious face that seemed torn between terror and fury.

"Belle!"

"Get off me Gold," she grunted, trying to heave herself off the ground. She quickly realised the futility of that when her wrists refused to keep locked in place and she crashed back onto the marble. Her teeth were chattering, she looked at her fingers and found the nails turning blue. A sharp bolt of panic spiked in her system, at the same time someone seemed to have put a red-hot poker to her lungs and she immediately cried out.

"What's she saying?"

"Call 911! Call 911!"

"Shut the fuck up! What the hell's making that noise?"

"It's the system, sir!"

"Then turn it off!"

"But sir, the...the cameras?! Turn off the cameras?"

"_Please._"

There was a resounding silence in the room, as whirring machines powered down. Bee had closed her eyes again. To add to her panic, she found her muscles no longer wanted to cooperate and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't open her lids. The cold was starting to numb her. She'd already lost all sensation in her lower body, but that may have been because Gold was sitting on it and had cut off her circulation. The only heat on her freezing skin came from his hot breath, blowing in her face where she was sure her lips were purple. Inside, she was still in the midst of a wildfire. The combined hot and cold was making Bee feel like her body would explode.

Everything was muggy. Her thoughts jumped from place to place. First to her chattering teeth, which she found was the only sound in the room. Next she thought of her ears, which were blocking and unblocking. Then that faint taste of mezcal in her throat. It was only three shots. Had it really been that long since she'd had tequila?

Before she could answer herself, her jumpy mind thought of the image of her blue fingernails. The panic returned. She tried to focus on those nails but it kept slipping away. She _needed_ to focus, because those nails told her something very important – if she could just figure out what it was.

"Isn't she just drunk?"

"Have you ever seen someone drunk turn blue?" Gold's voice echoed loudly in her head. He seemed the push she needed. Bee grasped at the sound, rough and unwelcoming but earthy and spicy and sweet like mangoes – just like the mezcal. Or maybe it was the lingering cinnamon of the shot that she was hearing. Could one hear a taste? She didn't know, but she clung to it and slowly the information began to unravel. The blue nails. The cold. Not being able to move her eyes. Walking on hot coals. The fire inside.

Thallium. THALLIUM!

Bee thought she screamed this piece of information, but only a gargled sound came through her shaking lips. Too many syllables for her to master, she needed to tell them without having to say the word.

"TI," she gasped. "TI."

"Tie?"

"Ti-what? Typing? Tight?"

"She's saying she's tired."

_Thallium, you idiots! T and I, the periodic symbol for the element Thallium! TI! TI!_

"Ambulance is here."

"You can't bring them into the control room."

"To hell with protocol, she's turning fucking blue, Regina!"

"David _fucking_ Nolan, I'm not giving up our security for some lightweight street trash who can't hold her liquor!"

Bee was losing it. In the mess of the voices, Gold's was being lost. She couldn't remember its sound anymore. The image of her nails was dissolving; something very painful was starting to happen inside her, like pins pressed out from just beneath her skin and pinched all around her organs. They were ripping her apart. She started to scream.

"Shh...shh...it's ok, hold on, _hold on._"

Bee nearly wept as she heard his voice again. It was just enough.

"TI," she whispered, and felt Gold lower himself until he could hear her. His heat wasn't helping her frigid cold but it made her feel...not safe, she didn't think she'd ever feel safe in his presence, but...comforted. "Th-th-th-ah-ah-th-ah-li-li-th-ah-li..."

"Thallium."

And then his presence was gone. And still she couldn't move her legs.

"Thallium poisoning. Leroy. Sidney. Carry her outside, explain to doctors what's happened. Graham, turn the cameras back on. Regina, check the cashier's cage and tell me who made money in the last fifteen minutes. Someone get Madam Superior and Mary Margaret off the floor and over here. Mal, tell me which of the fountain's lights is broken. Mrs Lucas, come with me."

Mind barely functioning, Bee felt herself lifted off the ground. In another two seconds, she succumbed to blackness. Now unconscious, held in Sidney and Leroy's arms, her body began to spasm and writhe.

OOO

* * *

**Stuff of interest: Other than the pun, I made Kathryn's last name 'Grift' as a play on the actress' name Anastasia Griffith. This chapter was so much fun to write! Hopefully I captured Belle's genius and gave a glimpse of the person she used to be (In my mind, the Belle I've written is the AU equivalent of what she'd be like after clerics flayed her with scourges in FTL.)**


	4. Relived In Poison

The crowds parted for him. Gold hobbled as quickly as his bum knee would allow. They were headed to the cellars; a vast, temperate room above Mal's territory but below the rest of the compound. Only a select few people would ever see the cavernous grotto that housed Bellagio's collection but even so, Gold had demanded a custom-made setting by the acclaimed 'Bentley's of wine cellars.' A company called ReVel had designed a room so spectacular that it made the hotel's famous botanical gardens look like child's play.

Mrs Lucas unhooked a lanyard from a clip on her belt. About to let the system scan her key card hanging from the plastic sleeve, her arm froze in the air and she stared at the screen. Green letters flashed on the display: ACCESS AUTHORISED. She adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat, worry now making her face hard. Cautiously letting the laser eat the barcode she stepped inside. As the glass door shut behind them with a faint sucking pop, they both stood still, listening for movement in the silence.

"Something's wrong," Gold growled, soft and low.

"It shouldn't say that," Mrs Lucas waved at the computerised lock. "Go outside, look what it shows after I scanned."

Gold did as she suggested, sliding the climate controlling doors open again. The display read: SCAN ACCEPTED. "When would it say 'access authorised' instead of that?"

"When someone manually enters the code," she said, just shy of a whisper. Stepping forward, she made her way towards the very particular, very special, selection of Tobala mezcals in a corner of the cellar.

The place was a true labyrinth, with three feet high shelves made of irregularly shaped stone bricks in dove grey, matte browns and onyx. First, they passed the cheaper wines, stacked in abundance one on top of each other. Piles of bottles were shoved together in triangular compartments. These triangles aligned in square formations, like picnic sandwiches cut into quarters. From the $20-$25 section, a narrow stone walled hallway with arched ceiling made of old bricks, led to another room. This one was the size of a football field with columns of wooden drawers containing almost 75,000 sleek black, white, green, gold and red bottles. Each drawer was labelled with a thin metal strip, the vintage pencilled in blue ink. They could be rolled out on rails, with a maximum capacity of six each, lying in a bed of wood shavings. Each long row had one floor to ceiling ladder, a contraption Gold couldn't imagine the old lady climbing. When finally they left this library of liquid courage behind, Mrs Lucas had to swipe her card again. Through another stone passage, it opened up into a room that seemed almost claustrophobic in comparison to the other. Yet it easily fit two Olympic swimming pools.

The ceiling was low, and the room was divided like an open-planed office. Each stone walled cube contained a different type of spirit: vodka, whiskey, brandy, scotch. They walked down a middle aisle until Mrs Lucas turned left into one of the cubed rooms. It was filled with glass cabinets, rows and rows of tequila and mezcal. Instead of taking out a key and retrieving one of these, she walked through another arched doorway, swiped her card on a different glass door, pushed it aside with another squelch of its air-tight rubber lining and flicked on the lights.

The most exclusive and expensive Mexican bottles were kept in a room about the size of a horse's stable. Gold moved towards their one hundred or so bottles of Del Maguey, each nestled in a rectangular shoebox, cork facing outwards along the opposite wall.

"When was the last time you came down here?"

"To this room? A year. For the annual stock up," she said stiffly. Then she jabbed a thumb outside, "I came into the spirits hall three days ago because one of my girls working a high roller Poker table said some Saudi prince wanted a bottle of Dalmore 62 Scotch while his daddy played the cards."

"There's no keypad on the door to this room," said Gold twitching some fingers at their stable, "So only you have the card?"

She glared over her spectacles at him, "I didn't spike the drink, von Furstenberg, if that's what you're implying."

"I wasn't," he said slowly, "Just getting the details of it."

"The police will do that won't they? Find who had motive and means?"

He laughed, a cruel and sharp sound in the cavern, "What makes you think I'm letting some upstart young commissioner run his grubby hands and grubbier team all over my hotel?" Gold scowled, "No. When Belle's recovered, we'll nail the motherfuckers to the wall ourselves."

"She'll recover?"

"Yes."

Mrs Lucas pressed her lips together and considered him with a long stare. She pushed him into a better position with a firm hand and a few hen clucks, tutting that his cane was in the way and to keep it close to his side less he smash one of the bottles. Gold usually wouldn't stand for that kind of mollycoddling but Ol' Lady Lucas practically came with the land. When they'd bulldozed down the previous hotel in 1998, Granny was already head of the housekeeping and simply moved from the old establishment to the new one. She was certainly old enough to be Gold's mother and why she didn't retire with a healthy pension was beyond him. Even the thought of having to replace her brought on a headache. He made sure never to bring up her age or the very reasonable sum in her superannuation in case she got ideas into her head about wanting to actually enjoy her life.

He swore Regina only called her 'Granny' to remind her of possible retirement and torture Gold with the impending pain of having to find someone as organised and tough as that bag of bones.

"There doesn't seem to be any monkey business," she spied the bottle heads with her glasses almost touching the tops. "But there's all sorts of technology nowadays for this kind of thing. I think the real question is how they knew Mary Margaret would order the Del Maguey at all."

The question seemed only a matter of course for Mrs Lucas. She straightened with a few perfunctory tugs of her shirt and waited for further orders. Gold stared at the racks and wondered at her words. She didn't seem to hear the gravity in them and was certain Gold was mad for not wanting to involve the authorities. She thought he'd probably cave in if she could get Hopper to convince some sense into that proud head of his. To her, the fact that so many things had fallen so coincidentally into place didn't seem troublesome.

Scowl darkening by the second Gold thought back to the 'access authorised.'

"There's a swipe card between the wines and the spirits."

"Yes? You told the company to build it," Mrs Lucas matched his frown. "Remember?"

"So the person who typed in the code couldn't have moved pass the wine hall?"

"Correct."

"Why would someone need to type the code, Mrs Lucas?"

"Sometimes the kids forget their cards. It's odd, because since we upgraded security in 09 and almost every access point needed one, no one's been that silly. They'd be borrowing someone else's keys all day, you see. But it's not impossible, I guess."

"Do my workers often come down here?"

"Every Wednesday morning I come in to fill up for the week, usually just the main wines and the cheap spirits for cocktails in the clubs. Then if there's a high roller who wants something particular, my kids give me a call and I come to fetch it. Or they do it themselves if they're closer."

"It's usually very empty down here then."

"There are cameras."

"Between when you got the Dalmore and now, did any of your people call you?"

"No."

Gold thought for a moment, stepping out of the little room and into the cubed area, then out of the cubes into the main spirit hall down the middle aisle and towards the glass doors. He slid it aside and started to make his way back through the library of wines. "Get Graham to find the tapes between then and now. I want to know who our friend the keypad typer was, even if they couldn't have gotten to the mezcal."

"So you don't think I poisoned her?"

They stopped beside a ladder, towered over by Kosta Browne pinot noirs and Chateau de St Cosme gigondas. Gold let himself give her a tiny smile through his anxiety. "I fully believe that if you intended to kill Miss French, she would be well and truly dead by now."

Mrs Lucas returned his small compliment with a wolfish smile of her own, adjusting her glasses with no small measure of pride. Gold hoped that he was right. A betrayal by Mrs Lucas would be too much to bear. Oh, he would be fine if it really was the case, of course he would be. But that wouldn't stop him losing a very valuable member of his managerial team.

Stepping back into the control centre, they found his people waiting for him. A small voice, one that was starting to sound very similar to Belle's, jokingly called them his 'Evil Council of Evil.' The name brought on an onslaught of new fear. He'd forced her into his games and put her right on the frontline – bared her to the whims of Regina and Mal, to the misogyny of Midas, the selfishness of George Nolan, the stupidity and weakness of the rest of his team. He'd made her the centre point of his mission and now she was paying for his wrongs. Would she pay with her life? Angrily shaking off the thought he banged his cane upon the floor to gather the council's attention.

"Midas."

"50 grand."

"How?"

"At one of the poker tables, we think they cold decked us."

"Switched the decks for a pre-rigged one?" Gold repeated, he rubbed a hand over his forehead, "Madam Superior, I thought you trained your dealers to catch that kind of thing."

His staff liaison manager frowned, "They're professionals, like Belle and Jefferson. Not drunk tourists, Gold."

"Footage?" he asked to the room.

"Huntsman's running it through the database."

"Don't bother. You won't find them there," he said. "Mal?"

"There are two shattered lights," she said without her usual spite, "Why do you want them?"

"Thallium iodide in the wiring keeps the light bright, even through water. It's the only thallium we have onsite since they banned it in rat poison."

Hopper raised his eyebrows, horrified, "You think one of _our_ people did this?"

Gold thinned his pupils and walked towards the wall of screens, looking at his patrons giving up their money. There they were, laughing and hollering and very oblivious to the fact that he was about to have one of the biggest crises in his career. He remembered Belle's words, as he'd grabbed her neck and forced her to explain what their 'mistake' had been. So caught up in dealing with the three red herrings, he hadn't thought about what she'd said right before.

_"You're compromised."_

Who had she suspected? Of course she would immediately recognise that only someone on the inside could have outed her. He brought his fist down on the table, almost upending Graham's can of drink. Sure, he had enemies. Sure, he wasn't the most beloved boss. But who would go so far as to kill Belle? He could feel the eyes of his council on his back. And he knew, just _knew_, that one of them had a hand in it. Who else had security cards to the cellars, to the fountain lights? Who else had known about Belle's exact job and the threat she was?

An unnerving fact quickly came to his attention. His workers only had cards to their particular departments. Mal had access to all of maintenance but she would have had to borrow some member of the catering department's swipe key to access the wine. Just as how Midas had the ever-changing pass codes to the hotel Accounts, all the costs of the general upkeep, worker's wages and things like insurance – yet he could only dream of what was into the casino's cashier. Regina was the sole person who had access to the in's and out's of that.

Did that mean more than one of his executives was betraying him? How lovely, he thought.

"We can check the ID's of the people who won, sir." Graham said, now holding his Monster out of way of Gold's fists.

"They'll be fake. No. Look back on the footage of the mezcal. I want to see everyone that waitress talked to, bumped or even brushed past from Privé to the Circle. Any opportunity for someone to spike it."

Mary Margaret gave him a horribly pitying look that he was quite ready to scowl off her face. She cleared her throat and said, "I'm sorry Mr von Furstenberg, but when Morgan gave the bottle to us, it was sealed."

"Anyone else thinking hypodermic needle stuck in the cork or is that just me?" Regina said with a corner of her mouth tugged up. The others looked at her brash unfeeling in mixtures of awe and disgust.

"Well, you were acting as a cocktail waitress last night," David said harshly, "So that gave you means to do it."

She laughed, a bell-like sound, mellow, pleasant and completely out of place in the solemnity of the room, "Beaten up by a girl, and such a tiny one too, isn't that motive for revenge?"

Mary Margaret took David's arm before he could do something stupid like attempt to attack her in his state of physical disarray, "Really Regina, we all know that with a heart as black as yours, you don't even need a motive for murder."

"Now that's unfair," she quipped, "I try so hard to be a redeemable villain."

"You should try harder."

"Withdraw your claws little pussy," Mal snorted, all of her spite coming back with a snigger, "You're embarrassing yourself."

"If we're electing possible murderers, I'd like to nominate Mallory Fiche," said Midas around his cigar.

The woman folded her arms over a generous, plunging cleavage, "Oh really? Why?"

He stared unashamedly at her bosom and spoke to it too, "No '_why_', just thought I'd throw you into the pot. Any chance to get you fired, doll."

She gave him a simpering laugh and then raised her arms to the ceiling, as if calling forth the gods, "Let everyone start thinking of why _Midas _would want her dead."

"Or," Regina interjected, "We could stop wasting thought on the foolish girl who decided to drink on the job and try to figure out how to get back the 50 grand we just lost, _and_ the 20 that we missed because we were all so busy watching her ridiculous act outside the elevators."

Mary Margaret walked over to a pile of belongings in a crate on the floor. She gingerly lifted out a white coat and said, "I think we should look at these three."

Regina stalked over and roughly opened Ms Orange's now empty purse, "They were red herrings. A waste of time."

"They were _someone's_ red herrings," Mary Margaret retorted, straightening up and trying to match Regina's height. "And given that we don't know the identities of the people who took the bigger pots, they're all we have."

"Oh, so you're a specialist, are you M and M?" Regina leaned in and hissed.

"I used to be one of them."

The older lady widened her eyes theatrically, "So why should we trust you at all? Perhaps you just couldn't resist one last steal and decided to betray all of us."

Mary Margaret laughed, harshly, "And leave David? If I can stand his father, I can stand any temptation, believe me, _Ms Mills._"

Regina pursed her lips and spun around, flicking a manicured finger in David's direction, "I honestly don't know what you see in her."

Sick of the play, Gold stepped forward and took the coat off Mary Margaret's hands. He felt in the pocket for a thin strip of card. Finding nothing but an empty wallet, he realised that Belle probably took the hospital ID with her. He looked at Graham.

"Dr Frank Whale. Florida."

The Huntsman obediently started up one of his systems and began to type. At the memory of Belle's face when she'd read the card, and her sudden change of mood afterwards, he said, "And everything you can find about Twin Cities Hospital, Niceville."

"Yes sir."

"And you," he rounded on the group, "The next weeks will be our busiest. Someone, who thinks themselves very clever, has picked this exact time to hit us. Or more precisely, hit me. Now, I say it once, my dears, I will not say it again: the traitorous bastard who thinks he can siphon 100 thousand dollars out from under me every night will be taught what true pain feels like."

He had strolled towards the door and now let himself out, but not before throwing a vicious smile back at his company. Leroy and Sidney were just coming towards him. At the look on his face, the latter kept very quiet and slipped past, slithering back into the room for the gossip that was bound to follow in his wake. The former twisted on his heels and fell in, half a step behind.

"Go to Privé and get me every bottle of that damned drink," Gold said softly.

Leroy left his boss and took a side route to the elite club. The staff entrance led him very quickly to the glass and mirrors. He walked passed one of the dealers at the high roller blackjack tables. Glancing up at a camera and assuming the suits up there were too preoccupied to watch, he quickly stepped beside her and whispered in her ear.

A flushed grin spread out across her face and she too, glanced up at the eyes in the sky. "My shift finishes at midnight, sir," she said demurely, "Is there a problem?"

Leroy, still pretending to be a stoic guard nodded at the whales and said, "I was only told to remind you of the new roster, Miss. Sorry for the interruption gentleman."

Looking back to see a smile still upon the lovely brunette's lips, he quickly moved behind the bar and retrieved the three bottles of mezcal. Peering at them, he could see no sign that they had been tampered with. Falling in back beside Gold, who he found leaning across concierge and tormenting Ruby as was his usual practice when he was out of humour, he placed them upon the granite.

"This was all there was."

Gold picked up each and repeated Leroy's own inspections. "You've experience in these matters, what do you think?"

Leroy thought very carefully about his words, struggling to find what to say before deciding on a simple, "This might be bigger than we thought."

After running his hands up and down the glass cylinders several times Gold finally said, with a tightness that might have been pain, "Do you think she'll survive?"

Again, the guard pondered, "I think you know her strength more than I do, sir."

His boss eyed him, but not in mistrust, then nodded slowly, something unreadable upon his face. It made his features gentle, soft. Then he turned on Ruby again and the harsh lines returned, "Girl, are you sure it was a real ambulance?"

"Yes!" the girl looked to Leroy, pleading him for help, "Like I said, it was all a rush. They came in, talking about some poisoned guest. I asked for identification and they showed it, and I _think_ it was real."

"What did the ID look like?"

"I...I...can't remember! It was too quick, they kept on saying that they needed to find the guest quickly or she'd die!" Ruby cried.

Gold reached over the counter and took one of the phones. He punched in a number and seemed to be following instructions (a rare thing, even if through a clenched jaw), before he said, "Was there an emergency patient who was brought to your hospital about a quarter of an hour ago? Poisoned. Uhuh...uhuh...yes...by God woman, if you put me on hold I'll sue you to hell and back. Yes I understand confidentiality but I'm her employer."

Leroy saw him roll his eyes at the receiver, practically yelling, "Just tell me if you received her! I don't bloody care about her medical records. Yes...young, brunette, poisoned. Really, how many victims of poisoning do you get a night? Yes? Yes. Good. Good, good."

Gold seemed to visibly slump with relief, he lowered the bottle he'd been swinging around and apologetically grinned at a frightened guest being served by an equally unnerved Peter. "Do I know if she has insurance? Um...no. No she wouldn't, would she...Listen here, I will pay up front, in cash, if you see to it that she receives the very best care. Can you do that for me, dearie?"

"Don't mind Mr von Furstenberg, he's just under some stress tonight because his mother's been hospitalized. Yes...yes, the wine he's waving about is from our _finest_ selection in Club Privé just through those doors to your right," Peter lied smoothly, "Welcome to the Bellagio and enjoy your stay!"

"What do you mean there's a high chance the gastrointestinal decontamination will be ineffective? Tell the doctors they will try every method on her, I don't care how expensive. If she dies I will sue you to hell and back. Don't you tell me to stop threatening to sue, I shall do what I like, dearie, and right now, what I would really like is to sue you to hell and back! Now, do we have an understanding? Good. Pleasure talking to you, my dear."

"You couldn't have been kinder." Leroy said blankly.

"Where's the sense in that?"

"Is she stable?"

Gold hesitated and looked directly at Ruby, who was between customers again, "Find me the best toxicologist within three states of Nevada."

"Sir?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Even your grandmother isn't deaf yet, must I repeat it, missy?"

"No," she said, "Not at all. Do I fly them here?"

Gold gave a wicked smile and made her quiver, "No silly girl, fly them to Hawaii and let's pay for their vacation while we're at it."

"Sir, you're doing that thing again," Leroy warned through clenched eyebrows.

"What thing?"

"Where you laugh through your teeth and make everyone think you're a psychopath."

"Why haven't I fired you yet?"

"I believe you're too lazy to find a replacement," Leroy said without a hint of humour and simply hooded his eyes further and glared at the public around them, as if willing them to do something bad. "May I ask something, sir?"

Gold smirked and they began to make their way to over to the valet pick up area. "I doubt anything I say will deter you, so go on."

"Can I have a new gun? I'm only left with one now that your girl took my other."

"My girl?"

"Yes," said Leroy without worrying about his dangerous tone. He knew his master's moods well enough and was aware he was far from stepping on any line. "She's very quick."

They stopped outside and without even needing to motion, a very sleek black car pulled up. Gold's personal valet and automotive expert jumped out of doors that opened backwards, instead of forwards. With its long front, Leroy always thought the car resembled Pluto the dog. They hopped inside the vintage Bugatti type 57, Leroy letting Gold move just a half second earlier to gouge whether or not he wanted to drive.

"When will you be back, Mr von Furstenberg?" Michael Tillman called from the curb. Gold pulled away and hit the throttle without acknowledging him. Leroy grimaced in the passenger seat and saw the valet shrug, used to the boss' ways.

The good man would probably sit in the Petrossian Bar, just off the lobby, and eat a salmon, waiting until his instinct told him his employer would return. Though Gold could be a down and dirty bastard, not that Leroy begrudged him that, the boss was nothing if not a generous host. All his staff from the maids to Regina herself had complimentary access to all hotel amenities – pools, bars, nightclubs and any of the shows. Of course, that also meant that any misbehaviour was easily punished by repealing these liberties. His only real rule was that employees not use the casino. At the start of every fiscal year, at his annul talk in the Grand Ballroom (with huge live screens in the adjoining Tower and Monet ballrooms because 9,700 employees failed to fit comfortably in one, nor even two, of their luxurious venues) – Gold would conclude his final speech with:

"If you want to gamble away your wages on my floor, I might as well not pay you in the first place. If you play, you will lose, and if there's one thing I'm certain of – it's that _my_ people are not losers. Now get lost and make yourselves useful."

He would smile a toothy smile, which would be live streamed into the two other ballrooms, close up, as per his instructions. He would put the fingertips of each hand together in a pyramid, wiggle them and scan over his employees. No one moved, even though they knew they were dismissed, because veteran workers would know Gold still had one last line he relished saying.

"Well what are you waiting for, _dearies_?"

And only then would there be the familiar rush to be out of their boss' presence and into the fresh air. Except of course, the maids who would be expected to clean up after the crush of bodies disappeared and systematically clear away wine glasses and mint wrappers.

Leroy glanced sideways at his boss, now certain they were on the I15 to the University Medical Centre. The traffic was appalling as usual. He wondered at how the ambulance had even gotten the girl there alive. Of course, he kept that thought to himself. That would surely drive Gold to distraction. Being the only person who was constantly around the guy, Leroy was, not quite blind, but numbed, to the fear he inspired in others. Instead, having seen him at every hour of the morning, during the nights when he couldn't sleep and had been called in to provide food, drink, cigars and (what Leroy secretly suspected) some human company, the man behind the aura of power was really only a man.

It was in those two weeks during Belle and her partner's reconnaissance of their casino that he'd seen his boss at his jumpiest yet. The man overcompensated for his own doubts by being more sour and glowering than usual. The slight changes had been as noticeable as purple rain. After all, he'd been trained to react to every one of the man's whims and every shift in his demeanour. So it wasn't hard to deduce that this woman, who had somehow appeared and disappeared from his master's life seven years ago (two years before his own time), was a bit of a wildcard.

Gold had taken to wearing shirts he'd never touched before. Instead of the usual breezy cottons and polyester, he'd chosen more textured fabrics – suede, velvet and leather. Leroy had seen those previously untouched items hanging limply in the wardrobe and found it odd. And he had begun to frequent the control room, a place he generally despised because it was the throne of Regina, and wherever that woman was, Mal was sure to follow. But despite the unpleasant company, Leroy had found himself sitting beside Graham and his team of 'hunters' as they watched the floor. As observant as ever, he'd noticed that Gold was talented in spotting wherever their target had got to.

He'd be the first to see through her many disguises, sitting up like a bloodhound on the scent as soon as she walked into the casino. Leroy felt Gold probably watched nothing but the doors for hours on end. Sometimes, the boss would be texting or doing work on his tablet but whenever someone lost sight of the girl and asked, he would lift his head, raise a casual finger and point to the exact screen she'd be frolicking in.

At first, Leroy thought that he was pretending to work just to seem less interested. How else could he know in an instant exactly where she was? But after a week, and seeing the physical evidence of the accounts Gold had looked through or the legal paperwork he then sent off to his lawyers, the flummoxed guard simply had to admit that the boss just _knew_. It was like those beady eyes of his were unfailingly drawn to her in some effortless sort of magnetism.

Then the morning after the call, fading into the background as was his way, he had felt it with his own sharp senses. Gold had known her footsteps, had somehow heard them above the din of scores of tourists and visitors. He hadn't even needed to look, was teasing Ruby as usual. Then she'd called his name in reply. His first name, which Leroy found surprised him. In hindsight, it really shouldn't have. Yet the most shocking revelation, that practically made the hairs upon his neck stand, was the way Gold's normally sunken and almost black eyes had very literally lit up. He'd looked the girl up and down and bodily and vocally praised her beauty.

Leroy had observed her too and found a tired woman who looked like she'd stayed awake all night stressing and cursing a certain billionaire hotel owner. Her hair was a mess, her jeans were worn. Up close, he found that she seemed younger than her twenty-seven years. She looked miserable and practically shook with an intensity that verged on breaking point. Of course, David was the butt of her stress and Leroy found it more than amusing to watch him yelp as a girl as small and as exhausted as this one promptly turned his face to mince. The trust fund baby, who'd tail gated on the back of his father's position as head of The Wynn & Encore, had been in need of a good beating.

It wasn't until, coming forward to yank her back, just a little reluctantly, Leroy had felt the strength of her gaze. Whatever tiredness demonstrated itself in her pale skin or slumped shoulders was nowhere to be found in the brightest blue eyes he had ever had the pleasure of looking into. It was as if her own physical weakness trembled and hid from the authority in those orbs. Now he understood why Gold hadn't been able to stop looking into them, after his thorough sweep of her other assets, of course.

When his boss leaned in close, so close that he was almost nose to nose with the girl, Leroy hadn't been sure whether or not the passion in his gaze was fury or lust. For a split second, he thought he would violate her, but Gold hissed one of his taunting insults and she actually bristled in Leroy's grip. He'd never seen anything but a cat shake like that, a little shudder and he was sure she arched her back and let the hair on her hunches stand on end. Then, with orders to take her away, he'd been shocked at how easily she was lifted off the ground.

He knew that his grip probably bruised her, forgetting his own strength or misjudging her weight. Suddenly, he was terrified he would break her. Her bones seemed so fragile and he'd had to remind himself that not minutes ago, she'd assaulted one of Bellagio's executives into unconsciousness with nothing but her thighs pinning him down and an old wooden cane. In the elevator, her eyes had swept the interior with the black and gold gilding. There was disgust scrawled all over her pretty features and for a second, he'd felt a sense of kinship.

"Park."

Gold had pulled up outside the UMC building into a semi-circular drop off zone that Leroy was pretty sure was reserved for ambulance. He jumped out of his side and took the ignition, moving to actual parking as his boss rushed through the ER doors without heed of the large sign that specifically told him not to. Having put the Bugatti in a spot where a reckless or inebriated driver was least likely to scratch the paint, he debated whether or not to take the proper front entrance.

Logic quickly told him it would be hard enough to find Gold now that the man had a three minute start, and he strolled in through the staff entrance, hoping he looked sufficiently dark and frightening to stop any questions. In another moment, he had flipped his reflective shades over his eyes.

"It may have escaped your attention, dearie, but UMC is hardly the best hospital on the west coast," a callous voice led him to his target. "In fact, it's not even the best in Vegas. So don't you give me that PR bullshit about regulation standards because I have friends who distinctly tell me otherwise. My dear, I can renovate a whole tower of rooms in your waiting time."

The woman looked resigned, generally the effect Gold's outbursts had on others, "I'm sorry but unless you're family, I can't allow you to wait outside the surgery, it's simply against our protocol Mr von Furstenberg. What would you have me do?"

"Now," he looked at her name tag, "Nurse Severe, what I would like is for you to invent a teleportation device so I can take my girl to Boston and admit her into Mass General. Since we both know that's impossible given the size of your brains behind those stiff little ringlets, you will oblige me."

"Sir – "

"Or I swear on her life," Gold's voice had become normal, emotionless almost, "I will destroy the things you love most and make sure you can't do a damned thing about it."

"I'm afraid, sir, that your threats are meaningless and I'm very close to filing harassment charges. Now if you would please take a seat, which, as I have already explained, is also technically not allowed, then if the treatment is successful – you will be allowed to visit after family members have given their consent," the nurse with her strict mouth and two tight bronze curls said very firmly. Leroy had to admire her courage.

"You are a stubborn little bitch aren't you?" Gold said, still maintaining the same distant tone and taking out his phone. He placed it to his ear and simply observed her, unwavering and unblinking in a way Leroy knew was incredibly unnerving. "Huntsman. I need you to hack into the UMC database and find the file on our friend Isabelle Gallium. What operating room is she in?"

The nurse sat back in alarm. Gold moved his lips slightly from the receiver and said, "This could have been so simple, Ms Severe. Such a shame it had to come to this," he returned to speaking to Graham, "And while you're at it, I suggest we wipe the footage of me in the ER lobby and replace it with something banal involving our lovely nurse."

"I'll call security if you step into that hallway," she pointed to the corridor Gold was beginning to make his way down.

With a chuckle, his boss pointed at Leroy and commented, "They're already here."

Leroy took a menacing step forward as was expected and folded his arms. "Ma'am."

"Are you here to threaten me some more?"

He only stared, leaning against the counter as the woman let out a sigh of disbelief. Gold and his cane tapped away, off to find his Belle.

OOO

It was raining.

Jeff said something trippy about omens and shot one of his devil may care grins at young Beatrix Gallia who gazed out of the grimy bus windows. A black man in bright yellow galoshes and one of those transparent plastic ponchos waved at her smiling face. He lifted a finger to his hood and tipped it to her in salute, mouthing "ma'am" as public transit route 218 stopped at the red lights. Bee turned to share her new friend with Jeff and saw him rifling through her duffel bag, taking out a mirror and her meagre bits of make-up. She had a tube of light pink lip gloss, the brightest colour she dared to sport, some half-dried mascara and a black eyeliner pen that Jeff was currently applying to his own lower lid.

She knocked it out of his fingers and made a face. He turned panda eyes upon her and grinned, "Disguise."

"You look like a transvestite."

He stuck his tongue out at her, "And you look _boring_."

"Civic Center Avenue, civic center avenue."

"Ah ha," he hurriedly stuffed the cosmetics into her bag and shoved it at her chest, "Tis us. Your hand, mia bella?"

"You're vile and disgusting and I hate you," she stated, strolling past him with a cheeky smirk.

They jumped off the bus steps and it pulled away with a screech of tires and a billow of sooty fumes. Jeff stuck his top hat on his head and looked at her, deeply offended, "The international transvestite community demand an apology. How dare you be so disrespectful."

"Oh, I've got nothing against them," she shrugged, throwing an arm over her head and hurrying under the green canvas shade of a Starbucks, "Just against you. I'm never using that eyeliner again."

"You never use it anyway," he whined and then leaned forward, sucking on his bottom lip with a wiggle of his eyebrows "It's probably thanking me for taking it out and playing with it a little."

She flipped her eyelashes at him and turned her head from side to side looking unamused, "And now you're just being vulgar."

"Come on, Bee, the pen has _needs_."

Giving him a languid smile, she deadpanned, "No."

"You're no fun," he pouted.

"We're not here for fun."

They began to trek along the sidewalk beside the six lanes of Cheyenne avenue, the cars driving past ignorant of their wet plight. Jeff was hefting a large black suitcase, none of that carbon steel lining stuff but sturdy enough for all the clothes they both owned, four pairs of shoes and basic amenities. Bee had her duffel bag, also black, Hook's colour of choice, and a small pouch she wore slung across her body which housed their passports and phones (the latest Nokia models, almost as thin as a deck of cards). They hitchhiked over Interstate 15 and saw the sandy paint of a modest motel compound. A large blue sign announced, 'Comfort Inn' and the only comfort Bee could think of was an umbrella, thanks.

They approached the front desk, looking very much like drowned rats from their fifteen minute trundle. The lady was not one to mince words, not exactly unwelcoming but hardly brimming with enthusiasm. Jeff's black rimmed eyes drew her censure and his top hat several wary glances. They were told about complimentary buffet breakfasts and access to the indoor pool.

"You haven't indicated a check-out date," she said crisply, licking her finger each time she flipped a page of the paperwork.

"We're here indefinitely," said Jeff.

At the lady's suspicious stare, Bee explained, "Depends how kind the cards are."

Her sniff plainly told them they appeared to be just another pair of woefully overconfident tourists about to lose half their lifesavings at the slots. She stamped their sheets, typed something into a bulky fluorescent green Macintosh computer with buzzing modem and passed them a key with a red plastic tag. Then, as was the practice, she gestured at a wire stand full of brochures, and Bee took three for appearances sake.

"She's even less fun than you," Jeff piped when they were out of earshot, trudging back through the shower to their allocated room. "I think I need a l'il bit o' El Cortez."

Bee put in their key and revealed a small, dank room smelling strongly of wet dog. She looked at him coyly, innocently, "El Cortez? Que es nuestro casino?"

"Start thinking of some Plays, mia bella," he returned her query with a roguish flash of teeth, "We have a casino to rob."

"Welcome to Vegas," she chimed, unwound her wet scarf and stopped in the doorway flicking the switch in futile effort, trying to will the blown overhead lights into existence.

"Welcome one and all," Jeff rushed forward and gave her a sweeping bow, flourishing his top hat, ushering her inside their humble new abode. He turned on the lamps instead and Bee stuck her hand in her pouch, retrieving their three separate pairs of fake ID. She threw one set to him; he caught it on nimble fingers and looked critically at his own passport photo. "Hmm...needs more eyeliner. I think we need to stop off at the drugstore, don't you?"

Bee rolled her eyes, dumped her bag on one of the single beds, which was surprisingly springy and started to strip herself of her thick outer layers. When down to only a white singlet and black boy shorts, she dug around in Jeff's suitcase and retrieved her favourite blue tea dress. Slipping it over her head, straightening the fake ties at the bodice, she exhaled and looked up at her partner expectantly.

"Well? If we're gonna stock up, we'll need money first."

"To El Co?"

"To El Co."

Downtown Las Vegas was shrouded in a veil of grey. The rain fell in diagonals and through its foggy curtain neon signs and car headlights appeared blurred, their distances hard to judge. The place lacked the glitz that Bee had been told to expect. It seemed...normal. Like any city in the country on a bleak Thursday morning. Being April, people had settled back into the groove of work, the Easter festivities long over and most of the paraphernalia gone. The city was big enough to disappear into but Downtown felt local enough to be relaxed. People didn't put on a pretence, didn't bother to look particularly happy for the few tourists that wandered, confused and shocked that the whole city wasn't as radiant and crystal-cut as the Strip. Locals drove past, locals worked in the bars or sat at the sports books betting on the latest local game. It was all very local. Very homely. Very unpretentious and a little rough around the edges, unapologetically gritty with a sense that yes, this was a city that had once been run by the Chicago Outfit.

No one would expect the con men to hit the Downtown casinos, those familiar names with low minimum poker tables that still allowed cigarette smoking though most of the big name hotels had banned them in lieu of new politics. Even around the busier Freemont Street; El Cortez, Gold Spike and Binion's still had dealers that greeted their guests by name and tables were filled with hometown friends who played, drank and lost money together. The odds were usually kinder, less favourable for the House and a little more in the advantage of the customers. Swindlers sat on the curbs in front of the casinos and tempted you with rigged games of Three Monte. Waitresses dressed well enough, had genuine smiles for the regulars and would have slapped you if you had the gall to call them a 'cocktail' anything – but if you were decent and paid a good buck, they might consider taking you home for the night.

That was Downtown. That was the edgy neighbourhood not ten minutes from its famous big brother. It was nothing on the Strip, to be sure, but had a certain old time charm, like a place stuck between the 70's and the present. No one played big and so nothing very much was at stake. The drink was good and strong and the laughter was forthcoming. It was rowdy at night and mild in the day and perfect for first time hustlers looking to try their itching fingers.

On that drizzly morning, Bee and Jeff took a place at a small timer blackjack table. Jeff practiced his sleight of hands and mostly got away with it. Bee caught the eyes of a few middle aged men who were unemployed and eager from a pretty new face. She learnt enough to know that El Co's hottest night would be Saturday, when the Vegas 51's played the Salt Lake Stingers. A rather intoxicated man allowed her to pickpocket his wallet. With a solid twenty to call her own, she crossed the road, found a McDonald's and bought both of them lunch. There was enough left over for her to get herself a new black eyeliner too.

In the evening, moving to the exuberant craps tables, they made an honest $5.50 between them and stole an extra 10 by fingering chips off other people's rails. Bee also managed to nick someone's car keys just to make sure she was still sharp with her pinkies. She even returned them to his jean pockets without his being any wiser. They could do better than a 1996 Mitsubishi Magna. Jeff managed to switch the casino dice with loaded ones for half a dozen spins and they both made $30 before he switched them back and headed to the bar, debriefing like Hook always told them to.

"Sorry about your dress," Jeff said with a grin, watching a game of baseball play on the screen, drinking a chilled beer.

Bee looked down on herself, the top of her cleavage damp from the spilled drink. While the men at the craps table offered in no uncertain terms to help her out of her things because she'd "be a looker underneath or my name ain't Bob," Jeff had swapped the dice. Sacrificing a little dignity for a good $60 was nothing.

They'd brainstormed a few different Spins on the flight over and tried most of them with varying degrees of success. Most that involved Bee being a physical distraction seemed to work well, to her mild chagrin and Jeff's unending amusement. She wasn't insulted by his lack of sympathy for her plight. Her consolation came from knowing that he would gladly snap any one of their necks if they dared do more than leer and make raunchy remarks. As long as their hands kept well away, he would join in the laughter and carry out the Touch – switching the deck or rearranging some to help with their final Play.

"We should put the Spin and the Assistant together. I basically _am_ the Spin," she said, sipping her own mocktail, preferring the non-alcoholic choice. "Spin, Touch, Smooth, Play and Rabbit."

She thought about some of their Smooths, like Jeff pushing aside the gawkers and taking out his dainty handkerchief for her use. It kept him close to her, subduing the commotion and keeping things in control. He'd directed attention back to the game, rigged die now in place, and kept her from being groped or being asked how on earth she could have been so clumsy as to spill drink on herself. Both were dangers that would have compromised his partner or drawn too much attention from upstairs. A few rolls with the loaded dice were done and dusted, and their Play had gone without a hitch.

"What's our Rabbit?" she asked. Jeff shrugged, "Don't always have to have one. Today's just some Recon. We'll pull our Rabbit on game night this Saturday."

She was thoughtful for a moment, looking around as the place gradually increased in numbers. Work was over; more people were de-stressing with a bout of gaming. "That's two nights away. Will we have enough time to prep?"

"Sure," Jeff said, all easy cockiness and good humour. It rubbed off on her and she excused herself, heading towards a game of Pai-Gow Poker and happily asking a friendly Hispanic dealer about the rules. As she learnt, a separate part of her brain began thinking of creative ways of how to cheat it. Still sipping her sugary beverage, Bee forgot about Vegas rains and bad omens, soaking in the warm, lazy feeling of contentment and the unexpected ease at which one could hustle in a casino. She had expected tighter security and staff to be more alert. It seemed that rainy Thursdays were the perfect time to acclimatise to her new environment.

"Heart rate still rising."

Bee blinked at the dealer in confusion. The words coming out of his mouth didn't have anything to do with pai-gow. He opened his mouth again but the silhouette of his image flickered, like interfering static on a television image. He began to distort. Bee was too confused to feel frightened.

She blinked again and the entire interior of El Co disappeared. She was staring, blurry-eyed up at a white ceiling. People moved about her, talking in no-nonsense voices that reminded her of school teachers or the man who'd tested her for her driver's license, telling her to reverse parallel park here and do it now, or else. He'd been a stern man, unsmiling and had made teenage Bee very nervous, so much so that she'd sweated all over the steering wheel and felt horrible the whole circuit.

"We have to put her on a Carbosorb X drip. Lavage unsuccessful."

"It's too dangerous, give me RR?"

"Decreasing."

"She's conscious, doctor."

"Barely. BIS?"

"76. Steady."

"AC will lose efficacy with high aspiration potential, super-AC same problem. How long since ingestion?"

"Unclear. They think less than 60 minutes. Should we try, doctor?"

"Alright...alright, give me 50gm of charcoal in Carbosorb. No sorbitol. RR?"

"Steady, but low."

"Keep her conscious."

Bee attempted to blink away the liquid film that seemed to rest upon her pupils. She felt desensitized to the rest of her body, unable to locate any other part of her. She faintly registered that she was supposed to have arms and legs but what their functions were or what they were supposed to feel like was lost in her drugged daze. She knew she had a neck, and felt herself swallow. It was little comfort to know she wasn't simply a ball of consciousness hanging randomly in the air. No, she imagined that if she was only a soul, she'd be able to look down on her own body and weep. Here, she could only see where her frail human neck would rotate her.

"AC ready. Commencing intrusive therapy now. RR steady."

"HR?"

"102 bpm and rising."

"Still too high. Is her ICP normal?"

"Also high. 27 mm Hg. Could it be encephalopathy, doctor?"

Trying to turn her head, she pulled on tubes stuck in her nose and mouth. They yanked painfully and she realised that she had a face too. This realisation was far from welcoming as it brought to her attention the oxygen mask over her lips, that her teeth were unceremoniously clamped on something metallic and her tongue had been pulled to the side, out of the way like a clump of lank hair shoved out of her eyes. She resented her poor tongue's treatment. Awareness of her face also meant an awareness of her ears and they seemed to fill with sound, as if she'd surfaced for air after diving to the bottom of the pool. Mostly, she could hear beeping. After several seconds, she realised the rapid little noises were the sound of her own heartbeat.

"Her liver's fighting the poison. It's entero-hepatic circulation. Set up a whole bowel irrigation."

"The drip?"

"Keep it going for 15 minutes. Monitor her progress."

"Heart rate still rising. 106 beats per minute, doctor."

"But is her RR steady?"

"Yes but still very low."

"Good. Give me the artificial rectal bag."

"If the gastric lavage failed to stabilise her, the WIB won't either."

"We have to try. We have her on the drip. It could ionise. She's steady, Rob."

"She's steady but failing, she won't last 15 and a WIB. You know that."

"I have to do something until the toxicologist gets here. Give her an antiemetic, it'll stop the vomiting."

"Thallium doesn't bond to charcoal; it's a heavy metal, Jen! You know that!"

"We don't even know if it's thallium. It could be anything so Lana, give me 1800mL/h of polyethylene glycol. HR?"

"106. Steady, sir."

"BIS is way too low, decreased consciousness is unsafe."

"Then lift the anaesthesia."

"The pain will be too great, she'll go into shock."

"Robert, this isn't gastro! It's an ER and I can't stand around waiting for some Sacramento specialist to fly in and save her. If I can get even a nanogram of toxin out of her body, you can be sure I'll bloody well do so."

"HR at 112...123...135..."

"BIS at 83."

"Keep it there."

Bee felt the drowsiness ebb, replaced with a dull thud on the inside of her skull and a pain in her throat. She was soon aware that the tube went very far down inside her body and she was breathing _through_ its hole instead of through her actual channels. It felt very close to gagging her and in her panic that she would choke, her body began to fight the machinery of its whole accord. Her oesophagus was contracting and she began to squirm. The horrible, burning sensation of heated iron rods pierced her insides, returning with a force. She forgot to breathe, toes curling as she once again felt like her soles were resting in flames.

"ECG showing critical heart rate, doctor!"

"Five minutes to go on the Carbosorb, doctor."

"BIS rising to 89, how conscious do you want her?"

"As much as possible, to lower the chance of aspiration during the WIB."

"She's not breathing properly. Respiratory rate critically low."

"Damn it! Give me an endotracheal. Don't look at me like that, Rob. Hold her."

Feeling the oxygen mask peel away, she thought they would remove the asphyxiating thing in her throat, instead a woman with gloved hands pried open her jaws and shoved something else down. It was another thin tube and Bee was sure her throat would burst with the unwelcome objects. She thrashed against the hands holding her down. She wanted to scream but heard no sound escape through the metal and rubber. She could feel the new object pump air into her, her lungs moving without her consent and making her dizzy with the rush of oxygen.

There seemed to be a dozen people, all moving about. Sometimes two people would become one and Bee reasoned that it was her blurred vision doing funny things to her head. They seemed cold and distant behind their sterile face masks, tugging at her flesh, playing with her naked body and not doing _anything_ to relieve her pain. In fact, as every second passed, she felt it grow stronger, sharper. She'd lost most of the sleepiness, was seeing straight lines and became quite aware of where she was. Awareness brought fear and pain. So much pain. Unable to help it, she began to yell, the tubes muffling her sound. Tears pricked at her eyes and ran down her temples.

"AC complete. Disposing of Carbosorb package."

"RR back to stable."

"HR still critical, and rising. 146, 149."

"BIS at 94. Only 6% of anaesthesia in her."

"Heart rate extremely critical, doctor! 158, 163. About to enter myocardial infarction."

"Abort. Abort WIB. Nurse Lana, put her back under."

"Do not abort! Dr Carlyle, please leave my ER or else cease with these disruptions."

"172, 177, 186, 189!"

"Overridden! You're killing your patient, Dr Morrison. Drop BIS back to 58 maximum. Lower if possible. Remove the osogastric tube from her oesophagus. Repeat Carbosorb X drip, same dosage. 15mins."

"What are you doing?"

"Stopping you from sending her into cardiac arrest. Stabilise HR at 90."

"Lowering BIS to 80...79..."

"HR dropping. 156...133...116...Beats per minute steady at 112."

The pain began to fade, a sense of exhaustion taking over. Bee closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was surrounded by people. Thinking they were the masked doctors who hurt her, she staggered back in fear. It took her a moment to register the primroses and orange ferns on the carpet and realise she was back at the El Cortez. It seemed to be game night and a waitress in a skimpy uniform lifted her tray of beers over the crowd towards a rowdy roulette table. Jeff was at her side, drinking in the atmosphere as one would savour a particularly expensive brandy. The reality of her hospital bed appeared in a moment of clarity and she opened her mouth to ask Jeff if he knew this wasn't real.

_I'm dreaming!_

"Am I Spinning craps?"

The words Bee had _wanted_ to say did not sound the same as the ones she _did_ say and the incontinuity between her working brain and her physical spectre troubled her. But only for a second. A man in a large bowler hat jarred her with his protruding belly and her hospital scene was forgotten in a whiff of his drunken odour. The reality shift had her blinking rapidly for several moments, letting the sound of the casino replace the incessant clinical _beep, beep, beep_ of the monitors. A few glances around and even the pain faded to a distant memory.

And then was gone altogether.

"G'luck," Jeff winked, unaware of her hesitation, and was lost in the crowd. Bee knew their plan and tugged at the skirt of her fluoro green retro dress. With two nights of Recon money, he'd demanded she buy suitable attire and she'd reluctantly put aside her comfortable knee-length dresses for something tight... Bee found the material and cut very unflattering, highlighting all the parts she wanted to hide but Jeff had said, in his usual lilting way, that she was beautiful and no magician in the world could wish for a more talented or distracting assistant. He'd said it without a hint of the uncouth and that flattered her more than lust-filled gazes could have.

Bee smoothed down her blonde hair, an expensive wig bought from a high end boutique along the Strip. Looking exactly the same as she had during Recon would be rather beside the point. Tonight, she would be new, fresh –

"D'you get lost on the way to Gentleman's Club? 'Cause I'd sure as hell give _you_ a ride," was accompanied by a wolf whistle, dripping with misogyny, "Or you could give me one, whatever you'd prefer, sweet peas."

She stuck a mint in her mouth to refrain from saying something that would blow their whole operation. Grabbing a cocktail off a floating platter, she busied her tingling fists with the drink and threw him a derisive smile then sauntered past, kicking him very pointedly in the shins as she did so. His yelp of pain was soon lost in the crowd and she hurried forward, concentration focused almost entirely on not tripping in her dazzling aqua stilettos that had criss-crossing straps running all the way up her calves. She hated how they sunk down into the springy carpet and threatened to upend her with every step.

The movement across the floor, the balancing act between shoes and body, made her hips sway and the drink inside her martini glass slosh. Approaching the craps tables in a large arc, she made sure to circle around all the patrons and selected a target sufficiently red in the face to perhaps retaliate. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jeff bend over and pretend to tie his shoes. That was her green light.

"You cheating little fuck, do you think you can go behind my back with some big fake slutbag and get away with it?" Bee threw the drink at him.

"Crazy bitch!" he spluttered through the cocktail and glared at her, turning even redder.

She slapped him. "Didn't your mamma teach you respect, you lying scumbag. I want a divorce!"

"What the hell are you talking about?! Who –"

"No more lies! This is the last time you'll play me stupid, I want a divorce and I want half of whatever shit we have left, when you spend every bloody day gambling away my money!" The man stared, gobsmacked and too full of drink to realise he was being set up. In the middle of her tirade, Bee saw Jeff surreptitiously slip through a side door. "I spend every fucking minute working to give us a life and then you waste it all away! When are you going learn that the luck is _never_ in your favour?"

A member of security ushered Jeff back out of the door and he shuffled away with his hands raised, apologising for thinking it was the bathrooms. Bee saw him stick those quick fingers of his into the man's pocket and retrieve a card. He hurried in the direction the man pointed and disappeared into the men's rooms, where a package of clothing was already hidden under the ceramic lid of the toilet back, last stall on the right lane.

"Don't you know that karma only favours good people? And when was the last time you did something right in your sad little life, huh?" she jabbed the heels of her palms into his chest and he staggered backwards, stuttering, "I hope you're happy with your little cocksucker girlfriend and that she makes enough money for your habit. Oh, I bet she does, whoring on the streets!"

"Ma'am, ma'am, we're going to have to ask you to exit the building."

"I'm leaving," she lifted her hands, Jersey accent still as thick as her layers of mascara, "I'm leaving forever, you hear that? No one's gonna have a little pot of tea ready for you when you come home at two in the morning, drunk and poor and smelling like - "

"Ma'am..."

"Ok, I'm going," she glared at her mark, his jawing opening and closing like a goldfish, "I hope you have a great life, loser."

Bee sauntered past the bathrooms, her head held high and feeling very much the angry, justified spouse. Jeff slipped out, giving her the shadow of a wink and adjusting his new uniform, a grey jumpsuit with the logo of a local plumbing company on his lapel. He ducked behind one of the bins and retrieved a small bag. She smiled to herself and was gladly walked out of the casino, feeling rather less self-conscious about the shortness of her dress. Examining her fingers, she admitted that her fake tanning skills were very subpar, never having had to make herself orange before. The lotion was all thick and uneven around her fingers and she itched to wash it all off.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening, ma'am," her guard dog said stoically and she smiled back, showing him the remains of her mint, resting on her tongue. That got him to leave pretty quickly and she didn't take the few steps out of the casino, choosing instead to recline against the wall and take out one of her Nokia phones, new with the sliding front and Bluetooth connectivity. She decided to play a game of Snake while she waited for Jeff's next signal.

After fifteen minutes, her ankles beginning to ache with the effort of staying upright, Bee was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. The SMS came and she gratefully walked out of the casino double doors, onto 6th street, rounded the building onto Ogden Avenue and stopped outside a black door in the alley between the main hotel building and the El Co car park. She rapped thrice and Jeff opened it from the inside.

"What did they say?"

"That they didn't need ye ol' plumber. But I told them someone at the casino had called about the toilet in the last stall on the right...well, then," he grinned and pointed at his own chest.

"So you cut the pipes when you changed?"

"Just like we planned. How were things on your side?"

"Feet hurt but other than that," she walked inside and Jeff practically shoved her into a janitorial closet. The door shutting in her face, she pulled at a piece of string and turned on the lights. A multitude of silk and gold sequins unravelled from Jeff's plumber's bag and she fought the different bits and pieces to finally slip on a butterfly Indian pallu sari in sheer mint grey. A flowing saree wrapped around her, the long sleeves of her three quarter tank top blouse and the floor length skirt of the dress hid the fake tan on her arms and legs. Her belly was bare and the georgette silk tickled. She pulled off the wig, carefully placed it back in Jeff's bag knowing she could use it at least a dozen more times, and took out a box of face wipes.

Once all the orange lotion and make up was clear off her face, she smoothed back her low bun and wrapped a thick jamawar beige shawl around the back of her hair. With only the crown of her head visible, she brought both sides forward and crossed them around her neck, then threw the ends over her back, as if she was wearing a headscarf. It hid the orange at her throat nicely and altered the shape of her face. She quickly took out her knew black eyeliner and traced until the shape of her rims was also different, more catlike. One eye was slightly larger than the other, the act of pimping herself being very unfamiliar but in all, she thought she looked different enough.

Stepping back out into the corridor, Jeff gave her the thumbs up and then passed her a sheet with thirty numbers ranging from 1 to 80.

"They'll be coming up 95% more often than other numbers, courtesy of our friend Easy-To-Hack Keno system. Play for an hour and bet $1.15's, we should have a healthy sum. In the final spin of that hour, I've set the system to roll out the last ten numbers on there. Then it'll wipe my codes and return to normal, so use it well, my lady."

"Did you have any trouble?" Bee asked, memorising the numbers and ripping up the note into little pieces, she threw them into a janitor's wheelie bin. Jeff shook his head, flashed the stolen security card and wiggled his fingers. Yes, she thought, he was always good with his hands, damn magic man. Slipping out into the alley, Bee entered back through the front doors, her pulse starting to race.

Her first casino heist, this would be fun. The Spin had gone well, giving Jeff time to Touch the security card. The El Co security guard acted as their Smooth, settling down the scene, just as they'd predicted. Now she would initiate the Play.

Stepping into the Keno lounge, she decided on Mumbai girl born to British ex-pats. Taking a seat and ordering a drink in oddly accented English; Bee took out a keno card and began to fill out the circles. With a maximum of ten numbers one could bet, Bee decided to colour in only eight. That would mean four had to hit for her to win. She chose five random numbers and three of Jeff's fixed ones. The Keno machine would roll out twenty numbers every four minutes. She had an hour. Colouring in the circle for five races, Bee gave the card to the attendant, who put it through the terminal and returned to her a thin paper ticket.

She looked down at her numbers. 13, 26 and 27 were Jeff's while 2, 6, 9, 23 and 24 were her own guesses. Flipping through the Keno brochure and checking the pay table, she calculated the odds in her head. The numbers bounced around like old friends. She'd break even, $1.15, with four. The chance of that happening was 21%, even with the rigged numbers. She had a 79% chance of losing the five rounds in the first twenty minutes.

That was the Play: being on a losing streak and then win big in the last few Keno races. A winning streak would draw attention, a lucky bet would not. She sat back and casually observed her fellow players. They were mostly chatting about the game. A few screens showed the minor league baseball game between Vegas and Salt Lake. The Stingers were a strong team and it was hard match to open the 2005 season. While she watched, Chris Prieto stole a base on a crucial point and the room erupted into hoots and cries of outrage.

Other than herself, the only other spectator not showing even a glimmer of emotion was a man sitting in the corner playing with some device that was so thin and compact that Bee thought it looked rather futuristic. She couldn't help staring at the stainless steel cover, wondering at what it was and if it would cost her a fortune to get. Not that buying outrageously expensive technologies was really her thing but she loved a new toy to tinker with and mobile phones (or whatever it was) were great tools to experiment hacking methods on.

Realising her four races had gone without a win and she was now $4.60 down, she decided to up her odds a little. This time, she went for only four numbers and made three of them Jeff's. She chose 26, 33 and 74. For one random number, she picked 6 again. She had a 43% chance of hitting 2 numbers and drawing even. She had a 31% chance of hitting three numbers and winning $5 and a 21% chance of hitting four numbers and winning $175. She decided to run with those odds for two spins.

Eight minutes later, Bee had won $5.15 and deducting her initial two bets of $1.15 each – that gave her $2.85. She looked sufficiently pleased enough for the attendant and eagerly filled in a new card. This time, she pretended to ride off her wins and betted with a little more arrogance.

She filled in all ten spots with Jeff's last ten numbers and selected to play with those odds for her remaining eight races. With the knowledge that those would be jackpot numbers on the final spin of her hour, she couldn't wipe the smile from her face. Knowing Hook would slaughter her if he saw how bad her poker face was, she forced the corners of her mouth down and distracted herself from the tantalising thought of her impending success by looking back at the man with the new phone.

She could have sworn he'd been staring at her and had only turned away at the very last second. Suddenly suspicious, she scrutinised his attire and did a quick profile. With a heavily lined brow and sunken eyes, he looked around middle age but with the new tech and lean, younger body, she guessed he could pass for early to mid thirties. He projected an air of something unpleasant, not exactly superiority but a sort of aloofness that kept others back. No one walked near his corner or by his table and Bee felt that none of the other patrons even knew they were keeping their distance. He forced a subconscious wariness in others and by the expression of distaste on his face and haunted look in his eyes; she felt that this wasn't someone who had many friends.

"Hello Miss, the system's showing you've won."

Bee shook herself from her reverie – another lapse that Hook would have cuffed her over the head for, and stared dumbly at her ticket. Apparently six of Jeff's numbers had hit on the third race and she'd won a healthy $20. The shock didn't need to be faked and she happily accepted the cash and tipped the attendant at the same time. The next race came out and Bee drew even. She lost the one after that and returned to looking over her shoulder at the grim faced stranger in the interim between Keno plays. This time the man didn't bother looking away and raised his eyebrows at her, as if daring her to ask him why he was showing an interest.

The brooding smoulder sent a shiver down her spine and she suddenly wished that the final three rolls would happen already. Inelegantly twisting back around, neck tingling with the knowledge that the unblinking eyes of the stranger were looking at her with undue attention, Bee glanced up at the next spin and saw herself lose another $1.15. She sucked on her lower lip, the fingers of her left hand tapping compulsively upon the chestnut of the bar top and awaited the next round. Just two more...just two more...

It took all of her will not to look up at the cameras. She tried to chant Hook's last words to herself but kept being distracted by the urge to peek at the stranger. _Never listen to your gut, only follow your instincts...The day you know the difference is the day you know you've made it. Don't forget where you came from...But reach high, be feared. Learn from your mistakes...but don't let anyone else know you've made them. And by the gods or whatever else is up there, try not to get yourselves killed...I don't have time to attend a funeral._

Hook hadn't exactly been supportive of their plan to break from the team. Neverland was all about white collar crime; hacking into the accounts of Wall Street moguls, placing evidence in the houses of police commissioners and then leaving no trace you were there. They learnt how to forge and frame others for their crimes but it was all done in the safety of their Ann Arbor office building and behind the most modern computer systems in the world. They were hired by businessmen to cripple their competitors, criminals rich enough to afford their services, or politicians who needed certain records removed from the public network.

Jeff and Bee had wanted to get out into the field, work amongst people, do heists, hustle and con. They wanted to pick and choose what jobs they took and not have to work for someone else. Hook had understood, not happily, but he'd understood and shooed them off with a tap upon each of their heads with his prosthetic hand. To him, twenty and twenty three were too young and too reckless to fly solo. They'd get caught or end up over their heads, stuck between some mob war. Maybe they'd be the tragic victims of a roadside shooting when they hit a target with gang connections.

They were smart, smarter than most, but just as young and as reckless as any. All of their creativity and stubborn determination could not make up for the fact that they hadn't been screwed over by the system. Yet. Until true cynicism and bitterness enveloped their psyches, until they knew not to trust a soul, they would never be truly great. That was the secret to the great criminal – they were all damaged, self-destructive beings with a vendetta against society and a fear of death and the law. Just enough fear to keep their heads turning and their legs pedalling and their hearts beating so fast they mistook it for excitement.

That idea that great criminals had nothing to lose was a lie. The greatest criminals had _everything_ to lose, that's what kept them going. They _had_ to be great because the alternative was watching someone you loved die, or losing billions of stolen dollars back to the legal system that once cheated you, or being whacked by a vengeful mafia boss. The easiest way to propel a low-level pickpocket into a ruthless killer and multi-million dollar white collar crime boss was to put a gun to his wife's head and watch her beg for her life. No man runs faster, thinks quicker or acts smarter than when they see exactly what they have to lose. It changes them. It makes them better, stronger, fiercer. But it makes them hard and angry and unrelenting. Bitter. Cruel.

Neither eccentric, good-time Jeff nor innocent, carefree little Bee had that edge. Hook didn't really want them to ever have it, if he was honest. But he knew if they were still alive after twelve months in their volatile business – then they too, would be changed. Then they would be the great masterminds they always dreamed they'd be. But their souls would be shrivelled and their hearts would be empty, forever trying to be filled with adrenaline rushes and that delicious taste of money. And to get there, to make that leap from small time crook to big player – the kind of player most people never knew existed because they were _so _good that the authorities were too embarrassed to publicise their acts knowing they'd never catch them – Hook had to let them go.

To the bullpen. To the lion's ring. To Vegas. With nothing but the wind in their favour and a load of natural talent backed up with little common sense and almost no self-control. They'd tasted cash and wanted another bite. They had all the skills needed to keep them in a nasty underworld and none of the ones that would be necessary to get them out. No education, no worldly experience, no hope for a future after the imaginary Big Con. They had no plans, no goals, no achievements that wouldn't have them questioned by the FBI. Would they survive in the real world? Absolutely not. But would they survive? Yes. In a place of pure imagination, in a place of grifting and hustling and playing their fellow man like chess pieces – yes, they would.

Bee blinked away her daydreams and looked up at the final spin. Jeff's spin.

One number. Hit. Second number. Hit. Third number. Hit. Fourth number. Hit. Fifth number. Hit. Sixth number. Hit. Seventh number. Hit. Eighth number. Hit. Ninth number. Hit. Last number. Hit.

$50,000. Hit.

She stared at her ticket, then up at the numbers. Then down at her ticket. Even though she'd known this would happen, the shock and the _joy_ at seeing that jackpot was overwhelming. She could barely breathe, so excited was she to have not only pulled off her first real life con, but also won _fifty thousand dollars!_

The attendant gawked at her, looking from her own screen where the winning players were displayed back down the bar to the woman dressed in the Indian garb, jumping up and down and almost squealing. Bee was giggling madly, waving the ticket in the air and looking at the numbers, again and again. Jeff was a genius! Closing her eyes and laughing some more, she didn't notice the hand at her shoulder and only when she looked up at him did something fall from her stomach – in fact, it may have been her stomach itself that simply disappeared and was replaced with heavy stones.

"Come with us, please," the man said sternly.

She opened her mouth to protest but no sound came out. Her normally quick mind blanking as easily as she could have calculated odds to the millionth degree of accuracy. He began to drag her across the lounge and her shawl fell back, unwrapping from her neck and being lost as she was tugged away. Barely even fighting his grip, sure that she'd been made and desperately trying to figure out a way to warn Jeff, she missed the soft clearing of a throat. Her guard didn't and he halted his footsteps and swung them both around.

At first, Bee thought that the stranger was in on it. It would explain his fixed gaze all through the hour. But then she began to register the words coming out of his mouth as he stepped forward on a wooden cane and passed her the dropped shawl.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, voice as hard as flint.

"We suspect there's something not quite above board with this woman's winnings."

"I can vouch for her."

"What?" the guard said, deeply confused. Bee snapped her hanging jaw closed and could do no more than flood her face with as much gratitude as she could convey. But the stranger wasn't looking at her. He was staring the guard down, though the man was so much taller than he. "Oh...oh, yes of course, sir. I just need to check with my – "

"That won't be necessary. Your boss is aware of who I am. Good day."

The pressure on her upper arm lifted and the man disappeared with a speed that surprised her. Standing there rubbing her bruised flesh and adjusting her saree with as much dignity as she could muster, Bee could only stare. She wasn't afraid of looking at him now and it was he who couldn't quite meet her eye. Instead, he walked over to the gobsmacked attendant and demanded her winnings. She accepted $50,000 in silence and passed over her ticket as if in a trance. Almost escorting her out of the lounge, Bee found herself back on the casino floor and looking at the place as if she'd never seen it before.

"_Can_ I vouch for you?"

"Huh?"

"Did you win it honestly, Miss...?"

"Belle," she blinked, bug eyed, "Belle French. And...yeah, I guess."

"You guess?"

She squirmed a little but her teachings returned and she tucked the money into the front of her pallu sari blouse, using the action to give her some time. "I'm so shocked. One moment I won and then this big guy comes up...so I feel like I've done something wrong, you know?" she said, looking back up with a shrug of her right shoulder and seeing him eye the place where the money had gone with an absent smile.

"Indeed. Anyone would be shaken."

"I'm not scared, just...wow, I never thought I'd have this much excitement!" she giggled, only half faking it.

"Well congratulations, Miss French. I will see you're on your way," he said blithely, placing a hand at the small of her back and walking her towards the front doors. "Unless you would prefer to stay and lose all of the money you've just won?"

"Oh," she said flustered at his attentions and stepping away, "It's fine. I'm not staying but you don't have to see me out. You can keep on watching the game."

"You know very well that the game holds no interest for me," he murmured.

Taking another step back, she lifted her arms and made a vague gesture, "Then, you can return to...whatever you were doing."

"Better," he seemed to critique her like a schoolmaster. "And by the way, I believe you entered the casino being Indian-born British."

Bee lowered her eyes and let the horror sweep over her, realising she'd fallen back into her usual accent. She sensed that the man was laughing at her and a glance through her lashes confirmed the suspicion. His sniggers were silent but it relaxed the stranger's face into something much younger, and very much amused.

"I'm not judging, my dear. But others might," he tapped a finger to his nose and almost winked, "I would practice caution if I were you."

"Right," she smoothed down her skirt and fiddled with the sparkly sequins. "Right."

He began to move away, without even a goodbye and she hesitated before calling back to him. "What's your name?" She took the three strides to cut him off in his path and made a face of apology, "I just...don't even your name."

Silent for so long she'd thought she'd offended the strange man, he finally eased some of her tension and said softly, "Gold. You may call me Gold."

"Thank you Mr Gold," she said hurriedly and patted her assaulted arm. "Thanks."

"My pleasure, Miss French. I must be off to 'enjoy the game'."

She laughed awkwardly and then remembered to step out of his way, not quite sure where her hands were supposed to be. She'd extended them for a handshake but he'd ignored her and now she felt foolish. Clasping them together to stop their restless movement, she quietly turned away, a small frown on her forehead, a small smile on her lips and quietly murmured, "Go 51's!"

Jeff practically jumped on her when she finally met him beside the milk in Walgreens on the Freemont Street promenade.

"You're twenty minutes late, Bee! I thought you were dead!"

"Your faith in me in comforting, really," she smiled tiredly. "We need a Fly."

"Flies?" he asked, pinching together his pointer and thumb and waving it in front of her face, making buzzing noises.

She swat at his hand and flapped her arms up and down, "Fly like bird, fly. A Fly after the Rabbit. An escape. No good getting the big stuff and then not being able to leave the bloody casino. I was nearly _made_, Jeff. It was so close."

He looked as horrified as she had felt, his hand clutching at her shoulders as if to make sure she was still there. "How'd you get out?"

Bee shrugged him off and headed towards the ice cream that was looking very tempting right about then. For some reason, she didn't want to discuss the odd stranger with Jeff. "The security guy changed his mind," she half lied. "He just needed some convincing first. I'm fine, don't _hover_ Jeff, I'm not going to vanish. We just need to plan an exit next time. Your numbers worked by the way."

She turned to him and beamed but Jeff's face had frozen and it was her turn to shake him. Her hands passed right through his body and she stifled a scream. Then, like the ice cream tub in her hand, he seemed to melt. Staggering backwards, she hit her head on a shelf and crashed to the floor. The lurch woke her and Bee gasped, staring up at an unfamiliar face. The beeping had returned. It was calmer though, and didn't seem so shrill. She was happy to find only one tube was down her throat and this one seemed to fill her lungs with air, she barely needed to do any work. The oxygen mask was still upon her face.

"Hello Isabelle, my name's Dr Tim Ealbert, I just need you to squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

She did as she was told. One of the people in masks came into her field of vision and said, "BIS at 94. Almost full consciousness, doctor."

"Dr Carlyle, Dr Morrison, you did a good job stabilising her. The Carbosorb was successful?"

"Super activated, it was. We had to risk two doses consecutively and then gave her iodine as in radiation poisoning."

"That was very quick of you," the doctor turned back to Bee, "Now Isabelle, we're going to give you the thallium antidote through a medical drip. Could you squeeze my hand if you feel a tingling sensation?"

Bee closed her eyes.

"No," the doctor's voice was so strict she immediately opened them again, "Please look at me Miss Gallium. Just for two minutes while we assess your body's reaction to the Prussian Blue compound, I need you to keep your eyes open. Can you do that, for me?"

She forced herself to focus on the doctor's round face. He looked about sixty and she wondered if that was too old to be still working. The heat and weight of his hand reassured her somewhat. Soon enough, she felt the tingling and gave him a squeeze. Simply keeping awake was so difficult she only just managed to follow the rest of his instructions. When they seemed certain she wasn't rejecting the drug, he finally allowed her to rest.

As she drifted off into a natural sleep, she heard Dr Ealbert say, "It's a good thing Mr von Furstenberg thought to fly me in. There's no Prussian Blue in south Nevada. The body stops reacting to the Carbosorb after the first few doses and she'd have died in the next 12 hours."

OOO

Leroy looked across the table at Astrid, changed out of the gold skirt and black blazer top of Bellagio's dealers. He smiled. She was the only one who could make him smile like that. Returning the favour, she reached across the diner table and took his hand with an equally large beam. It was well after midnight but the place was still half full. In the bright artificial light, it was all so different to the forced dimness of the casino.

"So?"

He looked carefully around, the habit of distrust hard to break, even with her, and leaned over until they were almost nose to nose.

"Someone poisoned Belle."

"_No._"

"Thallium. Gold thinks it's from the inside."

Her wide brown eyes apprehensive, she pressed together her lips, "That's not good. Oh Leroy, that's not good at all."

Her took both her hands in his, "No, it's not. But we'll be fine. I _think_ you didn't poison her," she huffed indignantly and he placed a very chaste kiss on her lips, "And I know _I_ didn't. So we'll be safe. From Furstie."

"Mr von Furstenberg..." she sighed, "Is he angry?"

"I think he left angry behind about two hours ago."

She winced, "How much money was taken?"

It took Leroy a moment to understand the question and then he shook his head, glancing around again before whispering, "He doesn't care about the money."

"But then what – "

"It's her. He cares about her."

Astrid laughed incredulously but at Leroy's serious face she too looked around and bent over in shock, "Really?" At his solemn nod, she burst out laughing again, stifling giggles behind a hand, "That's so...un...likely!"

"She's pretty special," he stated.

She slapped his hands lightly and pouted, "_You _like her."

"Are you jealous?"

Astrid tutted and grabbed his chin between her soft fingers, "Of course not, silly. But she is gorgeous. I just never thought the boss cared much for...well...beautiful women. He always has scores of them."

"She fights him," Leroy mused, "I think that's why. She dares to fight him, and that makes her both brave and..."

"It makes her special," Astrid finished, "You're right."

"He still hasn't told her though."

"Told her what?"

"What I wasn't supposed to tell _you._"

"_Oh,_" she looked at him with saucers for eyes, "She still doesn't know?"

Leroy snorted, "She's only been here for a day."

"A lot's happened in a day," Astrid said, exhaling heavily. "But if she doesn't know...then how will she...?"

"She's smart."

"Smart didn't stop her getting poisoned, Roy," Astrid said sweetly and sighed once more, "Is she alright?"

"Yeah," he replied gruffly, clearing his throat, "Gold had Ruby find some poisons specialist in Sacramento. He was at UMC within 90 minutes and I've been told to get him one of Wynn's villas for the doctor's use."

"Wow. That's very generous. And she's alive?"

"It was..." Leroy cleared his throat again, "Well, let's just say Furstie's missing a few clumps of hair. We were waiting outside, we could _hear_ what was going on and couldn't do anything. Then it all went quiet. Very suddenly, like someone just muted the world. I was sent away. That was about eleven thirty. I've never seen the boss so close to shooting me."

"You?" she ran a hand down his cheek. "Why?"

"Because I was nearby. And he had can."

She clucked like a mother hen and frowned, combing her fingers through his scruffy beard, "Don't say that. Please don't joke about that."

He stilled her hand and dipped his head, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You know I can take him, if I have to, you know that. I could squish him, Asta."

She giggled helplessly, "That's treason."

"He's not the _king_," he teased.

"In our world he's as good as," she said with a sad smile. "And us? What if he finds out about_ us_?"

"He won't fire me."

"And me?"

Leroy practically vaulted the table between them and landed on the seat beside her, hugging her close, "Not if he wants to keep his head the right way around."

Astrid refrained from saying anything against his violent threat and simply nuzzled into him, glad to share a moment of peace before what she could feel was a gathering storm. When Belle French recovered, _if _Belle French recovered, every employee's dirty laundry would be hung out to dry, as Gold von Furstenberg turned his empire upside down trying to find a mole. And with Christmas drawing near and then New Year's Eve – the biggest night of Vegas – the place was going to be crazy. It would take all she could to simply hold on. And she feared for her dear Leroy, who was right on the front, fighting his boss' war. And she doubted Belle, who was supposed to lead them all to victory – and no one had permission to tell her what she had really been brought to do.

OOO

Gold had his head hanging between his knees, trying hard to keep from retching. He'd wanted so badly to see a doctor but now that there was deathly silence in the room behind the white doors, he was afraid. It had been a long, long time since he'd been afraid. In his head, the dreaded conversation played on a loop. Dr Ealbert, the critical care and toxicology expert, would step up with that professionally blank expression all doctors learnt to wear. He would tell Gold to sit down, that he had some news to share. Gold would be impassive, or sometimes he imagined himself looking mildly curious – just another employee, he chanted in his head, just another employee. But then Dr Ealbert would say, "I'm afraid we couldn't save her." Then what?

Sometimes he would see himself nod, twice, slowly and stand up heavily upon his cane, shake the man's hand, tell him he had a nights stay at the Wynn and that a car would come pick him up. Other times he imagined himself barging through the door just to see if they were right, only to find her lying there, staring with her eyes wide and filled with frozen pain, blaming him. Other times, he would fight tears and look down at the white tiles for a long while, so long that the doctor would leave to give him time and he would sit there on the bench forever. It would stretch into oblivion and he would simply stare, thinking of nothing and everything. Everything about her.

How late was it now?

Past midnight for sure. She'd been rushed in at 9:45pm. He and Leroy had made it at 10. The trauma sounds began to happen at 10:30pm and Gold thought that she'd die, then and there. It took all his self control not to cave in the door with his cane. Then Ealbert had finally arrived sometime around 11:30pm and things fell silent about fifteen minutes later. They'd been silent ever since and he was slowly going mad.

"Mr von Furstenberg?"

He jumped up, cane clattering away and he silently cursed. It would take a show of great ungainliness to pick it back up again. Trying to keep his face calm, he looked at the doctor, every worst case scenario scene playing in fast forward.

"No, please, sit down."

He lowered himself, waiting for the words that would end him. Feeling somehow disconnected from the scene, he was actually intrigued to see how he would take the news. Gracious? Silent? Tears? Anger? It was all very suspenseful.

"Isabelle," the doctor sighed and smiled, "She's a tough cookie. She'll live."

"Um."

Oh, so apparently he would choose Dumb and Unresponsive.

"She's in a stable condition and if her body accepts the antidote, we should have her discharged in two days, three at most. She'll have to keep taking the Prussian Blue in capsules of course but her vitals seem good. She's strong."

"Oh."

The doctor seemed to sense Gold's confusion and reached down to fetch his cane, pressing it gently to his hands. "The staff here have been saying that you've been rather...eager to see her. It's best not to stay long, but would you like to? See her, I mean."

"Yes."

Gold was confusing himself. He wasn't feeling anything. Nothing at all. Stepping into the emergency room, he saw two nurses sterilising and disposing of different equipment. They pretended they weren't looking at Gold like he was the latest addition to the zoo. It took him a moment to make out Belle's body. She was so surrounded by different monitors, all buzzing and beeping softly. He stopped about five paces from her, his legs refusing to bring him closer. She looked exhausted and her skin was practically grey – which he supposed was a vast improvement on blue. Lying on the vast bed, she looked tiny, like a child.

The doctor was giving him a simpering, pitying smile and something inside Gold, the old Gold or the _real_ Gold, snapped. Had he become a fool, meant to be simpered at?

That unchained, emotional part that had been controlling his body for the last few hours backed away with a low growl. His mind shut it down, forcing it back into a cage with a barbed whip. Common sense quickly took over. He'd abandoned his hotel to the mercy of his team with practically no instructions. A traitor was among them and he wasn't there to observe said traitor's face in the moments after Belle's poisoning. Wasn't it always the direct aftermath that revealed the most about people? He was angry now, at his own weakness.

Weaknesses.

Of course Belle would be fine. How silly to waste so many hours when he had greater things to worry about. Coldly telling the doctor there was a villa waiting at the Wynn, Gold exited the hospital, not even giving Nurse Severe one of those steely glances he liked to use so much. Leroy had parked his car in the far corner of the lot and he stepped in, quickly pulling back onto the I15 and speeding south to the Bellagio. His weakness, his damn weakness had led him to make yet another error. He'd left the crime scene and missed all those juicy little telltale signs that might have led him straight to his mole.

He wondered if Graham had tracked down the history of Dr Frank Whale. So many doctors. It was an omen, he was sure. Doctors were part of the administration, part of the law and order of things. He, Gold von Furstenberg, worked outside of that order. Now here they were, clusterfucking his life and making trouble. He should never have driven out to UMC. He should never have left his empire without a king. It would fall into anarchy. Who knew what Regina could have gotten up to?

_He should never have let Belle back into his life – _Forced_ her back into his life._

Taking out his tablet, he called Graham and began to debrief.

Several hours later, when the sun decided to show its lazy face above the rugged horizon, in the early hours of the morning, Bee awoke.

She was alone.

OOO

* * *

**Thanks so much for support! Sorry this chap took awhile, but it's almost 17000 words, so I hope that makes up for it :)**

**Stuff of interest: ReVel actually IS known as the 'Bentley's of wine cellars'. The toxicologist specialist was me being nerdy and I found a real guy named Dr Timothy E Albertson, Sacramento, head of internal medicine, critical care, toxicology and a list of other amazing things. I hope I got the medical stuff and the Indian clothes accurate and no offence to Comfort Inn east cheyenne ave, I'm sure you're lovely.  
**


	5. Initiated To The Game

Bee felt like she had cotton balls shoved in her mouth and nose. She tried to shake the unpleasant sensation and found that nothing would move. It wasn't as if she couldn't feel her limbs or her neck, simply that any energy she might have ever had, had abandoned her body. She soon realised she was lying on a bed, slightly inclined at the top so that she was in a half-sitting position. It was comfortable. This was to be thankful for because if she'd been sore, there was nothing she could've done about it.

She gingerly opened her eyes a fraction, seeing just enough light through her slits to realise she wasn't blind. Struggling to piece together her most recent memories, she found, to her ultimate dismay, that she really didn't remember much at all. In fact, she had no idea what day it was, or what time it was or even whose bed she was lying on. The last thing that made any sense was hacking the Keno machine at El Cortez but even in her dazed state, Bee knew that was years ago – a mere memory that seemed to have returned to her in all the vividness of HD TV.

Given the encompassing white, and the movies she'd watched, Bee supposed she must be in a hospital somewhere. She couldn't recall exactly _why_ she was in a hospital but she guessed it was something more along the lines of concussion than illegal organ harvesting. Gently, and without much mental strain because even that tiny exertion had left her headachy, she eased a slither of consciousness through her body and attempted to feel where everything was. As she did so, bits and pieces flooded back to her, the poisoning, the nightmarish scenes with the arguing doctors and beeping, the ceaseless beeping.

Her feet were still in existence, which boded well for her future mobility. Her legs seemed unnaturally heavy but they too, lay there, unmoving but warm. Her lower body felt normal except for what she guessed was a tube they used to pass away her wastes. She guessed one of the needles into her inner elbow transported food. At least, she hoped they had other purposes than stinging and making her arm feel very stiff. Distracted by the feeling of objects jabbing into her flesh, she didn't notice the man standing in the corner.

"Hello Bee."

She jumped. Or jolted, more like. Struggling into a more upright position would have been futile. Instead, she settled to peering suspiciously at the dark haired man in the corner with his arms crossed. He was well groomed, with a howie moustache and oiled back hair that fell in little curls and wisps around his neck. It was longer than she remembered.

"You're not real," she managed to croak out, the oxygen mask making her sound like she was speaking through one of those cheap Darth Vader costume masks. At least the hospital people had finally taken out the tube.

He stepped forward, as tall and as trim as ever. He wore a black, silk suit. Tailor made of course. It was in some modern style and didn't have the usual triangular collar flaps plunging down the front. He wore a white dress shirt underneath, buttoned to the neck but missing a tie. Looking well dressed yet only half done; refined but rebellious, he'd wear a suit, yes, because that was expected – but he'd wear it his own way and don't anyone else tell him to do it otherwise. It was the only thing that made Belle doubt he was only a figment of her imagination. The details of his eccentricities were so accurate she didn't think her tired mind could have crafted such a being.

Carefully peeling the mask from her face, he perched on the side of her sickbed and crossed his legs. Bee drank in the sight of him. She'd never _seen_ Hook since she'd left Ann Arbor, only ever talked to him in her head, so perhaps he was real. Yet he hadn't aged a day, which was a tally back in the favour of 'hallucination.' If she was entirely certain he was flesh and bone, she wouldn't have dared to stare so much. Then again, if she thought he was completely imaginary, she'd have started screaming. Not that seeing people was a bad thing, but if her person of choice was James Hook then she really needed to exorcise herself of her many, many demons.

"If I'm not real, then there's no harm. You won't remember this when you wake. I won't...exist," he shrugged and looked at her expectantly. When she only blinked, he lowered his head towards her, "There's something you need to talk about, am I right?"

"I guess..."

He straightened and tapped his wrist, "Well then let's get cracking, I have places to go, people to meet."

"You're imaginary. What could you possibly have to do except cater to my every need?" she joked lightly, her voice barely travelling.

He rolled his eyes, "I'm a vision, not a slave."

"Right. My imaginary friend is Hook. This is by far the worst thing that's happened in the last 24 hours," she muttered, "And that's saying something."

Hook grimaced and folded his arms again, looking quite at ease balancing beside her knees. "Let's debrief then."

She looked at him for a long moment and finally decided that there could be no danger in recounting her day to a phantom. And she was now certain he was one, since the real Captain of Neverland never spent more than three seconds on her and certainly would have never sat attentively by her bed like a complimentary shrink: Buy one emergency visit, get a Hook free!

Unless he wanted something of course. Damn crooks, always with their ulterior motives. But since she doubted her dismal state could be of any use to him, she would speak.

"We were stateside, Jeff and I," she began groggily, "Atlantic City, Chicago, St Louis...The usual American circuit before doing New York on New Year's and then going down to Atlantis resort in the Bahamas. That's the plan, year after year. But I managed to convince Jeff to detour to Vegas. I said, 'when were we finally going to get over our superstitions and come back to the biggest gambling centre in the western hemisphere?'"

She took some time to catch her breath. "Jeff said, if this is personal – he'd be out. He had Grace you know, and wasn't going to risk getting bust for some vendetta of mine. So I said, no, we're not gonna hit Bellagio – we'll stay away from the Bellagio. And we did, for almost seven weeks; we racked up so much cash we sent practically all of it away. Two months and almost 800 grand between us. But the big bucks hadn't even come yet. We were hitting Caesar's last. Doing the big Rabbit with the Palace and an expected payload of one million if things went right. We were gonna be flying out before Christmas, in time for the usual New York heists.

But Bellagio...two weeks ago, Jeff asked if I could handle hitting it one last time. He said he realised the Bellagio was a better target than Caesar's, that he'd been canvassing the exteriors. I said I was fine, that if he wanted, I could handle it. So we began Recon, doing little Plays every night and trucking up a good 10 grand each time. And we'd send the money away the next morning and go back that night and get another 10."

"Very lucrative."

Bee knew that her and Jeff's escapades were nothing on some of Hook's payloads. She remembered a corrupt FBI officer, high up in the ranks, had once paid them 8 million to erase some incriminating evidence to do with nuclear missile trafficking. In cash. Hook had taken three of those million right into his back pocket. Two million had gone into funding the expedition and the remaining three had been divvied up between the workers assigned to the case. This must seem like small fry to Hook.

"Well, last night there was technical test. $30,000 in a blackjack play to test the attentiveness of one of the marks, a Club Privé dealer. That night, I got a call. From Gold. I felt like," Bee closed her eyes, "I felt like I'd been waiting for the call my whole life and when it came..."

"You couldn't resist."

"He played to my weaknesses," Bee said, feeling ridiculous in needing to defend her actions to someone that didn't exist. "He said one of the marks I'd set up was having...family troubles. Something to do with his mother."

"Ah, exploiting the parental soft spot," Hook mused, "I may need to employ this man."

"Gold doesn't even listen to his own conscience, what makes you think he'll listen to anyone else?" she sighed. "He played me. He'd probably been watching for our whole two weeks, waiting to set us up. The man with the whole mother story? He was a plant. Jeff's cocktail waitress was a snitch. It all spiralled out of control. You always warned me that's what happens when things get personal."

"And yet you still allowed it to. May I ask what Gold did?"

Bee was silent for a long moment. "He didn't trust me," she rasped out.

"You stole $700,000 from him the first time."

She glared, "I thought imaginary friends were supposed to be supportive. And by the way, I only stole the money _after_ I realised what a jackass he is."

"Yet you walked straight back into a trap set by this jackass?" Hook frowned, "Do I have leave to call you an idiot?"

"Yes," she sighed, twice. "Yes. I'm an idiot. He put me in his big fancy suite, wanted to dress me up in his big fancy frock, throw me onto his big fancy floor and stick the spotlight to me."

"But...?"

"But, I...didn't wear the dress. I bought a new one, with some of the money I didn't have time to send away."

"You took the money with you, to the meet?"

"No," she shook her head slightly, "He went to my room at the Flamingo and gave it back to me."

"You hid it, didn't you?"

"Behind the mini bar."

"He found it?"

"Apparently."

"That doesn't trouble you?"

Bee pulled a face and asked him if the sky was blue. Hook stroked the stubble around his chin and peered at her, "Why did you agree to meet him, hmm? Other than that story with the man's mother. The Bee I've heard so much about, who's made a name for herself in all the wrong circles – that girl can smell a set up from a mile away. What possessed you to risk it, knowing you were emotionally compromised, knowing you would put Jeff and Grace in danger?"

"I was..." Bee searched herself, "an idiot."

"That's not good enough. _Why_?"

"What kind of cruel imaginary friend, are you?" she whined through half closed eyes, "I don't know. I don't know why I went. I don't know why I didn't run when I managed to escape the suite. I don't know why I'm not planning an escape right now. It's Gold. He's..." she looked all around the small room, trying to draw an answer from the barren white washed walls.

"Unpredictable."

"What?"

"Loose cannon. Dark horse. Like you."

"I think you're mistaking me for Jeff in your old age," she said rather petulantly. "But I suppose that's exactly what a loose cannon would say. Denial, denial, denial."

"Jeff wasn't a cannon. He was a ticking time bomb. He was predictable in his unpredictability. Sure, he'd explode, but he also carried around a sign saying 'BAM,'" Hook gave a small smile and spoke with a wistful fondness before his gaze became snakelike, "No, it was Beatrix who wore this big black question mark on her forehead. Jeff's dainty little brunette friend who dressed like a saint and fought like a sinner, who didn't look twice at the money but horded like a leprechaun. You ate up books instead of men. You never swore. You never did drugs. You hated alcohol. You couldn't even walk in high heels. You were scared of make up."

"I'm surprised you paid that much attention to me."

"Like I said, I was waiting for the moment you would surprise me."

"And?"

"And you didn't. You left us. And then a year later I get wind of how these upstart youngsters robbed Bellagio without even doing any Reconnaissance. Just walked in and took the money. A man, top hat, twenty three. A woman, gorgeous brunette, twenty. So young, so fresh and so, so stupid," Hook said in equal measures of disapproval and amazement. "But the rub was that you got away with it. Three months after that, you jump back on my radar in Monte Carlo. Half a million in a day, three mill in a fortnight and not a single camera had your mug shot, not a single soul knew your names. Then in June, news from the underground came that someone had rigged the big race at the Royal Ascot – a Welsh gentleman named Sir Jefferson Wonders and his fiancée Lady Bella smiling for all the major networks channels and acting as if they'd picked a lucky horse. I looked at the TV and saw this woman I didn't even recognise; made up, dressed to the nines, a cocktail in her fingers, flirting with all the men, making innuendos, giggling in this flawless New York accent."

Bee avoided his gaze, staring instead at the tubes in her arm and flexing her elbow tentatively, letting the pain of the needles distract her from a torrent of memories. Royal Ascot, Britain: a wet track and that heady scent of leather, a stench of sweat and flies, the flutter of couture dresses and outrageous hats.

"What happened?" Hook asked in a tone that wouldn't take a half-assed answer in reply.

"Vegas happened," Bee said, taking the half-assed route anyway. "That was years ago. It doesn't matter. Maybe I was living up to the 'dark horse' potential I always had. Isn't that what you just said?"

"Gold."

"What about him."

"He changed you. He made you very angry, and he changed you."

"Present tense: he _makes_ me very angry," she gritted her teeth, making her already weak voice even fainter, "He pulls me back into his life and someone makes a threat on my bathroom mirror before shoving thallium down my throat. I don't need the world to punish me; I'm doing enough of that myself, thank you very much. Yes, I know I fucked up but that doesn't give karma the right to dunk my head in a toilet and give me a wedgie at the same time."

"Someone threatened you?"

"Yeah. Cherry lipstick."

"Female?"

"Not necessarily. But it's big and red so it gives the intended effect."

"Handwriting?"

"Not much to get. Right handed. Neat, so the person wasn't afraid to get caught in the act. They knew they had time."

"Who knew you were out of the room?"

She thought back, the strain on her memory giving her a growing migraine. "After Mary Margaret called security, probably the whole hotel. Anyone."

"Someone inside?"

"Yeah. And only someone inside could have poisoned my wine."

"The Del Maguey mezcal?"

Bee frowned and looked at Hook, who was now leaning forward in interest, his hand resting on the covers over her thigh. "No. The red wine."

"What?"

"It was the red wine, of course," she said it as if she was stating the weather. The vessel with which she was poisoned held no interest. It was the motive behind it that mattered. "Thallium takes at least eight days to kill someone. So it was a thallium compound, probably mixed with a catalyst, an organic enzyme to speed up the process. But it can only speed it up by so much. It would still probably take a good ten to twelve hours for me to feel it and I only had the mezcal about thirty minutes before I collapsed. No...Someone spiked the wine. That was the only other thing I had all day."

"But no one knew you were going to be put into that particular suite."

"Obviously someone did."

"Gold?"

"Impossible. He wouldn't kill _me_," she stated without bothering to question why she was so certain. "Anyhow, if Gold wanted you dead, he'd draw out the torture into some psychological mind play. He'd want his victims begging him to shoot them, by the end. Poison's too...quick and simple."

"I like the hit and run, it's very clean and blameless," Hook said in the same detached tone and both he and Bee nodded, mentally weighing the pros and cons without a hint of emotion. She hummed in agreement. "Sniper?"

"Only if you can afford the good ones," he smirked, "Have you been practicing?"

"You know I sucked at it," she sang. "And if I was far away enough to need to snipe, I'd screw it and just scram."

Hook chuckled. "Yes. Tell me about the floor."

"A rigged roulette wheel. Remote operated, I'm guessing. Three red herrings who were playing at it, physical tells to show each other when to past post...very basic stuff. They made out with two grand between them and I followed, out of the casino. Rooky mistake. Horrendous fake ID's and all the stolen chips that they probably had no idea how to cash without suspicion, and a real doctor's card for Twin Cities Hospital. But there wasn't the remote for the wheel."

Bee deigned to meet Hook's eye and looked stubbornly at the ceiling. There was a smudge in the top right hand corner of the room and she thought it was vaguely the shape of a cat's head with a pigeon stuffed in its mouth. Or perhaps it was Lisa Simpson with a Charlie Chaplin hat, wearing a feathered boa.

"Twin Cities?"

"Yeah."

"Bee."

"Yeah?"

"Don't look so unconcerned. Twin Cities, Florida?"

"Yeah."

"Jeff."

"Yeah?"

"Bee, look at me," this time Hook's voice had gone very hard and it demanded attention. His jaw had locked. She was touched at the alarm her imaginary friend was showing. "That's the hospital Grace was born at."

"Uhuh...your point?"

"There are no coincidences in our business." Bee only stared as he said the words she'd been afraid to say herself. The possibility that Jeff was somehow involved was ludicrous. Jeff was her partner of seven years; she'd known him for nine. He was her oldest and only remaining friend. There were many set backs Bee had, and could continue, to handle. But losing Jeff would knock her down hard – perhaps hard enough that she might not ever find the will to get back up. Though it was against every rule book, Bee trusted Jeff with her life and her soul too. They'd decided early on, to hell with the rules, they would write their own. Trust had been very high up the list of must haves. Would he honestly rob the Bellagio without her? But she couldn't rationalise away the fact that she would be a liability in any Bellagio heist. If she was in the position of a team leader, planning out a Rabbit, would she want herself on that team?

No.

Was she really working with Gold to catch Jeff? The thought made her want to ask Hook to turn up her drugs and just let her pass into blissful oblivion, high on morphine.

"I'll look into Twin Cities," she said finally. "But the more pressing matter is where the control for the wheel is. There was a fourth member, probably sitting at another table. And how did they attach the computerised device to the wheel in the first place? There are nightly checks and they even change the wheels periodically. The people behind it knew how the casino schedules worked. Such an elaborate plan just to draw me away."

"Pros."

"Who went to a lot of trouble to look like amateurs," Bee mused. "Last night felt like...a tech test. Just a dress rehearsal to make sure the lights and microphones and smoke machine worked. I think I was the mark. They wanted to see how I played."

"And what did they find?"

"A human," she said bitterly, "As susceptible to poisons as any other mortal. How very disappointing. Jeff and I built out reputations on the idea that we were something more, that we had magical powers, like his hat could spin into another dimension and we just disappeared into it after our cons. Now all of that's blown to shit hell. I wonder if Gold knows he's just destroyed six years of careful, good, hard work. Yeah...I think he does and I think he sits in a creepy basement. Cackling."

Hook drummed his fingers upon her thigh and flipped the oxygen mask around in his hands, "I wonder how you two met. A wealthy hotel owner and a fresh on the scene hustler."

"In a Downtown casino. He was my first Fly."

"He helped you escape," Hook put the mask on her beside table. "Interesting. You must have made quite an impression."

"Well I was a white girl in Indian traditional wear. So yes, I can see how that would have drawn attention. And I squealed. A lot. And was altogether very..." she searched for the word, "Foolish."

"Some men find that cute."

"Gold isn't into 'cute'," she almost laughed at the absurdity. With her eyes closed, she didn't see Hook's raised eyebrows and knowing smile. "Pray tell, what is Mr von Furstenberg 'into'?"

Bee's face grew overcast, "How the hell should I know. Or care? Anyway, the quicker I stop this heist, the faster I can leave. That's assuming I'll be allowed to leave," then mimicking a British professor, "after the cessation of my tenure."

"You want to solve it," Hook said slowly, "You're intrigued by these people. Obviously very talented and obviously very threatened by your presence. Sharing a grudge against Gold, a love for money, a talent for the con – they must feel like kindred spirits."

Bee looked at him through half open lids. "I'll admit I'm curious. I know everyone worth knowing in the underground. This is someone new. _Something_ new. It doesn't feel like it's about money. I think that's just dessert. The main dish is personal. So yes, I do want to know who this mastermind is."

"Even if it means working for Gold?"

"Yes. Even that."

OOO

Gold was smoking. A Cuban cigar pinched between his teeth, left arm swung haphazardly over the back of a lounge chair and right hand lazily drifting over the leather of his holster. Soft rock played loudly through the room, made bright with the glow of two dozen crystal chandeliers and mirrors framed all along the russet coloured walls.

Gold sat alone, a thin oval table with a double vodka on the rocks and his velvet upholstered tiger patterned couch for company. He had an entire semi-circular settee piece to himself, though the rest of the VIP room was practically overflowing and there were even more people waiting outside the entrance. No one dared jostle him from his comfort, used to his presence on a Saturday evening. The employees never bothered to push their services in his face. The guests, given the _entertainment_, weren't paying him a smidgen of attention. The only time they left their seats was to grab another round from the corner bar or urgently withdraw money from an ugly grey ATM by the door.

A woman in a pair of needle thin shoes and silver latex shorts stopped by him and bent over, dangling her bare breasts in his face. She batted her eyelashes and attempted a husky growl, "You look lonely, handsome."

"Leave."

"Are you sure you don't – "

"Leave or I will get you fired."

She straightened, looking affronted. Her lined eyebrows arching in astonishment. At Gold turning his head very pointedly away from her, she hurried towards the staff door. Must be new, he thought, sipping on his drink and looking after her jiggling figure. No veteran would have been so bold as to approach him in that manner. About to turn around and signal for a refill, he caught site of two people fighting, just inside the staff doors. The woman, a well endowed lady with at least three chins, seemed to be accosting a slender girl who was attempting to melt into the wall behind her.

Gold stood up from his place, grabbed the cane and watched as the door swung shut, closing the scene off from prying eyes. He didn't bother asking a worker to keep his lounge free for him; no one would be stupid enough to occupy it in his brief absence. He pushed the door open a fraction and saw the bulbous chin of the fat lady.

"Madame de Vil wants you to dance. Here at the Gentlemens Club we dance with our tops _off_. Now unless you want that six months to be extended to twelve, Miss –"

"I want her," Gold pointed a finger at the horrified girl.

The lady blinked and stepped back, suddenly aware that squishing her face up against one of the 'Dreamgirls' was not a good look. "Ah, Mr von Furstenberg, she's not quite dressed yet. Or...undressed, yet."

"I want her now, Una," he demanded, turning the piercing gaze upon the tiny creature who was squinting at him with one eye smaller than the other, a dawning realisation upon her horridly painted face. She looked like Barbie after a hard night out. "Ursa. Ulla. Whatever your name is."

"Ursula. And Miss," she put her ham like arm around the girl, dragging her from her flattened position against the wall and squeezed her shoulders very hard, "Francis is new today. It might be best for a treasured member of our club to have someone more _experienced _to tend to your needs. We know how rarely you ask for one of the girls, sir. Minnie is free. Er...let me see, Minnie? Minnie!"

"New is no matter," he said briskly, "Frankly I think you need more new around here."

Ursula glared at the girl and finally said, "You heard Mr von Furstenberg, Annabelle, take off your shirt."

She gaped at him and wrapped her arms around her chest, squeezing together her bare thighs as well. Gold took one look at the oversized Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt and the mortified tears gathering in her eyes and said, "I'll pay triple if she keeps it on."

"But..."

"In cash. As always."

The woman pushed the girl forward, almost smashing her into the door as it opened inwards from another lap dancer finishing her shift. Jumping back with a jolt, the girl looked between the older lady and the older man, blinking furiously. "Enjoy her," the woman said with a stained yellow smile for Gold and a look of pure venom for Annabelle Francis.

Gold opened the door for her and she stepped through with the same confused, squinting eyes. Not two steps across the carpet and she stumbled, twisting her leg and only keeping from falling by grabbing Gold's shoulder. He grunted as all of her weight fell onto his weaker side. Her head at his chest, one hand digging into his flesh to keep upright, he took the moment to whisper, "You are the world's worst stripper, Miss French."

Her mouth formed a perfect O and she thawed into an expression of greatest relief, "_That's _where I know you from."

He deposited both of them onto his lounge and called for his regular bartender. "Top up my glass and get another for the lady."

Gold shifted his weight until his back was to the man who looked strangely at Belle's covered chest before scrambling away. With a curious smile, he said to Belle, perched on the end of the couch like a bird. "You forgot me."

"I forgot your _name_," she corrected with a small smile, "I thought you were one of de Vil's cronies." At Gold's questioning turn of head she waved fearfully at his right hip, "The gun. The black suit. The sunglasses. I thought you were...never mind," she forced a wide smile, "Hello Mr Gold. Or...am I supposed to be calling you Mr von Thirsten-something?"

"No," he said, gesturing at the vodka that had been awkwardly placed on the oval table by the uncertain barkeep, "Drink."

She picked up the glass but didn't bring it up to her mouth, "You're trying to get me drunk."

Eyes wide in false innocence he gulped back half of his own and gargled in the back of his throat, "Would I really exploit a damsel in distress? I am no beast, madam."

"Damsel in distress?" she cocked an eyebrow and took a tiny sip, crinkling her nose at the taste.

"You've been enslaved in a strip club, my dear. Distressing to any damsel, no need to be ashamed."

She chuckled unconvincingly, "Why would you think that?"

"Because you are a veritable safety hazard in heels. You are wiggling like a rat in a trap in those hideous shorts they've forced upon you and you have one arm wrapped around your stomach like you're terrified our good, fat friend Ursula is going to come over and rip that old shirt from your body," he gestured to each part of her anatomy as he spoke, "And finally, you just mentioned Carmella de Vil and her bullies – which I am assuming were your latest target. Unsuccessful target if she has coerced you into working at her club."

Belle put down the drink, bit her bottom lip and made a conscious effort to remove the arm over her abdomen and place it on the back of the sofa. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"If you're to succeed in this business, Miss French, you must learn how to lie more convincingly," Gold said lightly, "May I call you Miss French?"

She thought for a moment and, knowing she had no choice, not with those dark, stubborn eyes looking at her, said, "Sure. Whatever you like, Gold."

"No 'Mister'? Very rude."

"Do you come here often?" she asked after a break in conversation that found both of them watching a man groan as a surgically enhanced woman gyrated into him. Gold watched the blush spread up her neck and then her fruitless attempts at finding less suggestive scenes elsewhere, head wheeling around like a windvane in a blizzard. By the time the red had reached her cheeks, her shoulders slumped, folding in on herself with disgust evident upon her cosmetically distorted face.

"Every Saturday."

"You're a man of routine," she observed with a protruding bottom lip, looking up with a tiny glint of mischief, "I bet you don't even know what 'spontaneous' means."

"I would'nt jump to that conclusion if I were you, my dear," he replied with a half smile.

She shook her head, teasing coquettishly through her fluttering eyelashes despite still burning cheeks, "I bet you have 'days of the week' underwear. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday...like clockwork."

"Well, Miss French," he looked away, "I can assure you I have an abundance of creativity when I am _not_ wearing said undergarments. If you would like proof, I could oblige you with a private screening."

Her jaw dropped, she leaned backwards, almost completely reclining due to the size of the couch, "Are you always like this with the random strangers you meet in casinos?"

Gold leaned forward, matching her slanted angle until he was only a few hands widths above her, "Only if I see them at the stripclub a week later." She flushed a bright pink under his gaze, glowing through her make up and unable to match his gaze. He saw her gulp and she giggled uncomfortably. Bringing the fingers of his left hand, unoccupied with the vodka, up to her eye line, he ran his thumb over the fingertips of the others in the universal signal for money, "And rigging the Keno machine didn't hurt, either. If your aim was to catch my attention, that is."

Belle closed her eyes, "I can't figure out if you're on my side or not."

"I would be disappointed if I was easy to 'figure out', dearie," he sat back in satisfaction. "Dance."

"Huh?" she jumped up. "Dance?"

"I _am_ paying triple," he flipped the back of his hand at the air, "Go. Dance."

"I can't."

"Then I will have your dear friend Una-Ursa-Urso come over, make good your worst nightmare and tear that grubby shirt off you, hmmm?"

"You're evil."

"Very astute," he winked and gave her a light shove. "Well, go on. This is a lesson in balance."

She stood, her face flaming with Gold's words and the horror at having to move in time to a beat. "How do I dance?"

"_How?_" he laughed outright, a high pitched whiny right in her face. She looked like she'd been slapped. "You are just as green as grass, aren't you my dear? Then I will teach you. First step, drink this," he pushed her glass into her hands, abandoning his cane as he took a single step towards her, "All of it, down in one gulp."

She moaned in protest and winced, gasping as she swallowed the stuff. Sticking out her tongue with a strangled sound, she shook herself like a dog after a bath. Gold was laughing at her again.

"What?" she crossed her arms, unintentionally jutting out a hip, "I hate alcohol. It's like pouring kerosene down your throat."

Gold placed a hand on that hip and spun her around, more forceful than his slight build betrayed. She let out a squeal and felt his other hand come to rest on her lower belly. He yelled something across the room and the music changed, an upbeat, Latin song coming over the speakers. The other dancers stopped in their tracks and looked around, settling on Belle in her daggy grey shirt, until their clients called back their attention.

Gold pushed against her right hip. It moved without any resistance. She was soft and pliable in his hands. She didn't know what to do with her arms and had them held in front of her, elbows bent at right angles. He felt her tense in alarm as he brought his pelvis against her back and pushed her forward, taking a step that she had to copy to keep from being flush against him. He pulled her back again and stepped forward with the other foot. Ah, she finally caught on, he was dancing. Taking over from him, she began to move her hips in an eight formation, tentatively at first and then, as the music began to build, quicker and with more intensity. She shimmied her shoulders slightly, feeling his head come beside her, into the crook of her neck.

"I thought you said you couldn't dance," he whispered, deeper than he intended.

"_I _thought you wanted me to give you a lapdance," hooking her left arm around her back and his, taking a grip underneath his suit and around the cotton cloth of his shirt. It unintentionally became untucked when they moved and she brushed against hot flesh. It was his turn to tense, stopping the forward and back steps and feeling his breath hitch.

Her hips continued to sway in his hands and she suddenly turned her head, capturing his lips. The touch was so brief he almost thought he'd imagined it.

"What are you doing?" Gold managed to choke out, but didn't take his hands away from her waist. She brought her right arm up, as if wanting to take his head in the bend of her elbow and memorise the texture of his long hair.

She forgot she was still holding the glass with the left over ice.

It promptly tipped all over Gold's back. He jumped away, swearing as he dug at the ice cubes in his collar.

"That's enough," Ursula said, coming forward and clasping Belle's forearm in a vice. "We are _so_ sorry for her clumsiness Mr von Furstenberg. It will never happen again," she turned to glare at her, "Go. You are a disaster! _Go_."

Gold looked after her with twisted lips, hollowed cheeks as if he was sucking them in to keep from laughing and sparkling eyes that didn't reproach her in the least. He was too surprised to snap at Ursula, who'd called another girl to fetch some dry tea towels. As they fussed over him, he studied Belle's slack jaw and cheeks tinged with pink. At the staff door, she hesitated and glanced back over her shoulder, offering a tiny wave as she ran one hand through her hair, brushing the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip and shaking her head slightly.

She was answering his question: she had no idea what she was doing.

OOO

Gold blinked himself out of his memories and took his crossed ankles off the table. Back in the Renaissance meeting room, he'd tuned out the drones of his people in the mood for fonder thoughts. He never bothered to control the direction of his daydreams but it had been years since he'd revisited the first time he saw Belle at the Gentlemens club. As clear and detailed as what he'd had for breakfast while other memories involving her were clouded, fogged with something he thought may have been his own guilt. This was one of the lucky ones, untainted by his own bias.

Subconsciously moving a finger over his lips, as if trying to hold on to the softest pressure upon them, the sweetest lingering – he simultaneously brushed away the reminiscence and leaned forward over his paperwork on both elbows. Midas looked up from his notes and paused in his speech as the boss moved. At Gold's nod, he continued, talking about something dreary. It'd been three days since Belle's hospitalisation and he had kept away from UMC as he'd promised himself. Unfortunately, his mind wandered more than ever and there was an ever-present knot in his chest that he couldn't drink or smoke away. The only thing that soothed the tension was when he slept, and only because he found he was dreaming about her – young, happy and most importantly, healthy.

Her absence was also taking its toll on his casino, and his pride. They had lost another 160 grand and he never noticed until counting the cashier at noon the next day. There seemed no rhyme or reason to the robbings, just random wins that appeared completely above board. Last night, not a single patron had even won above $2,000 on the main floor and yet he found $30,000 missing during Regina's inspection three hours ago. These people were making him even more paranoid than usual and here they were, having to deal with the mundane bits and pieces of hotel management – a normal routine that was made all the more stressful by the influx of visitors come Christmas.

"The Goodwins have paid the $25,000 for the Cosa Bella wedding package but the harpist who was booked broke his thumb," Mrs Lucas stated with a frown, "Now, we can't get another harpist for tomorrow on such short notice and if we tell the happy couple that they have no music during the ceremony, we'll have to refund them 10% minimum."

"Sbarge broke his thumb?" Mary Margaret winced.

"Apparently he slammed it in his car door," Mrs Lucas sighed, looking to Gold staring off into space. "Von Furstenberg?"

"10% is half our profit on the wedding packages," Midas griped, "Can't we replace the harp with a piano? Get one of the guys who performs at the Petrossian to do the gig. Pay him $500."

Gold was nonreactive to the issue and the others looked amongst themselves, not quite knowing what to say to their boss who'd been as near to disinterested in his hotel as they'd ever seen him. Finally he said, "Refund the 10% _and_ get Marta from Petrossian."

"We're making no profit on the wedding," Midas threw up his hands in disbelief, scribbling something onto his spreadsheets, "None at all."

Mrs Lucas spoke again, adjusting her glasses as was her way when things were uncomfortable, "I hate to bring this up but the Cosa Bella package provides three nights stay in a penthouse room. I booked them into Belle's suite in April. You'll need to move her. We're at full capacity."

"We're not moving – "

"It's okay. Put me in the cheap seats."

Gold swung around, mid-rant. Belle was standing by the door, Leroy at her side looking almost protective. He'd swung his suit jacket over her shoulders, with good reason since she appeared to be wearing nothing more than a strappy semi-transparent black singlet and a pair of leather shorts. Ah, he remembered, crocodile leather. He'd told Graham to keep tabs on Belle's UMC file and call Leroy to fetch her with a change of clothes when she was discharged. Gold had thought only of her comfort, not her modesty and was dismayed to find he could count her ribs through the material of her top. That in itself worried him.

"You don't have to stand up for me," she said with only a shadow of her usual wit. As she walked closer, he saw that her skin was a ghastly pale grey, her eyes milky white and their normal blue sheen dull with hurt and exhaustion. Gold, unaware he'd risen at her entrance, pulled out the chair beside his and seated himself only when she fell into it, already panting from the effort of walking from the car to this room. Leroy, usually holding post just outside the door had foregone protocol to stand with his hands at the back of her chair, guarding her.

With a wry smile, Gold said, "Changed allegiance Leroy?"

The guard hunched his shoulders and glowered, "Not at all, sir."

Gold scoffed, trying to find some of his old bite. "Kind of you to join us, dearie," unable to help himself, he followed the comment with, "Are you feeling better?"

She turned those hollow cheeks on him and that knot in his chest tightened to painful extremes. Oh yes, it was definitely guilt. There was no accusation in her glance, only weariness and a glazed expression as if part of her mind wasn't really in the room with them.

"I'm fine," she said in a dead voice. "Am I interrupting something here?"

"Yes."

All eyes looked at Regina, even Mal seemed a little reproachful. Belle was wretched, Gold despondent, the mood of the entire compound cheerless despite the season's festivities. Yet Regina glowed, looking as radiant as ever, as if she had some secret elixir to happiness that had evaded the grasping hands of others before her – or perhaps she was so blasé about everyone else's feelings that the discontent didn't affect her. The woman shrugged, "What? Executive meetings are strictly off limits to anyone outside our cosy little circle. Right, Gold?"

Gold narrowed his eyes with a smile full of gall, "Indeed. As of now, Belle is consulting head of casino security. Regina, you now answer to Miss French."

Belle looked askance at him and wore a confused expression that vaguely registered that this was some kind of victory. Regina huffed at the announcement, leaning forward with her hands splayed across the table she directed a snide, "If all I had to do to get a promotion was sleep with my boss, then I would have agreed when he asked me, long ago."

Both Gold could reach his cane, Belle laughed, the sound dry and raspy as she rubbed her throat, giggling and coughing in a delirious frenzy, "When did she start working here?"

"Six years ago, ma'am. During the renovations in 06," said Leroy, his deep, low voice resonating oddly in the banter between the women.

"While I was in Vegas then," Belle stated with a small, but equally ferocious smile, "I believe, my _dear_ Regina, since I gather he approached you after I left – you were my rebound."

The older woman slammed her hands down on the table and stood up, a lioness about to pounce, "Disrespectful little slut, so you did fuck him."

Leroy had drawn his gun. Belle laid a hand on his forearm, the lightest of pressures enough to get him to heel. She turned to Gold, who was massaging the bridge of his hooked nose in little circles. He was in pure agony. Quickly regaining some of her usual spark she hummed, "Can I fire her? If I'm her boss now, can I fire her?"

Regina laughed; a bitter, mocking echo that brought his hairs to an end, and Belle's grin wavered despite her best efforts to be brave. "Fire me on what grounds?"

"Oh I don't know," Belle pretended to think, smacking her lips, "Maybe a complete lack of oversight in allowing your casino to be robbed _continuously_ by the _same_ set of people, night after night? And furthermore, failure to _remedy _the problem after you realised – woefully late, by the way – despite having _unparalleled _access to a state of the art security system. Zero professionalism amongst your peers and, finally, and most importantly; being a bitch to me."

Regina stood there, nostrils flaring, looking very much like she would love to claw Belle's eyes out. The sick woman lowered her eyes after the speech and stared at the hands in her lap. Not even offering a triumphant smirk, she simply slouched and almost sank into the chair, spent from the outburst and looking like one slap would floor her. Into the silence, the sound of ice on glass tinkled, as the other executives busied their attention with their drinks.

"I don't know what your agenda is," Belle said in a very small voice, "And I honestly couldn't care less."

"Agenda?"

She looked up and searched the woman's eyes as if trying to decode answers from within their depths. "The angle you're playing. I don't give a damn, I just don't _care_. But your pride and your disdain for everything around you – that I can't handle." She looked at Hopper, who immediately flushed under her gaze. "I know why you told Gold that I was the only person for his job. And everyone else here knows why too, don't they?" she scanned the room, "Don't you?"

"Belle –"Gold began.

"No," she cut him off with her usual blind courage, energy returning in spurts of adrenaline, "You don't get to explain yourself. I'm very, _very_ sick because you didn't warn me – because you didn't tell me the whole story. If you had, I would have been more careful! I thought this was just about catching normal gaming cheats – card counters – people you can't persecute because they use maths and logic to beat the odds. But it's not, is it? It's bigger."

Her eyes demanded someone refute her and she pursed her lips when no one met her gaze. "The reason I was your best shot at getting back that money, is because I work with the man stealing from you," she lowered her eyes to her lap again, but no longer spoke softly, weakly. There was power in her voice, "That man is Jeff. That's why I'm the only person suitable, isn't it? Because I have first hand experience with his methods, because I know how he ticks. Isn't it, Mr Profiler?"

Hopper could only gape at her and look to Gold for direction, at a lost about what to say. Belle looked back at Regina, the only person still matching her glares, "I have a plan, Regina. A plan to get back all of your beloved money. You are a vital part of that plan, and I can't have you half-listening to me and doing things your own way. If this is going to work, I need you to focus, to stop thinking about your ambitions or your motives, or whatever the hell else consumes all your attention and makes you unbearable to work with. I am in charge of this operation. You all answer to me."

Gold roused himself from his silence and murmured, "You are lording over my people."

"Do you want your money?" she said with steel, "And do want to stop them stealing more?"

Nodding once, briskly, he peered at her, seeing something close to normal Belle in her locked jaw and taunt, decisive features. She returned the nod, slowly bobbing her head, "Good. Other than your complete cooperation, I ask only one more thing," she was speaking only to Gold now, lowering her voice accordingly, "I will get you your money. But you will let them go, unharmed and free. You will not pursue them; you will not report them to the authorities. You will give them lives and their livelihoods. Gold, those are my terms."

He almost laughed, "You want me to let the bastards stealing from my casino, just...go unpunished?"

"You should be grateful I'm even staying," she said through gritted teeth, "I know why you were afraid to tell me the whole truth – you knew I wouldn't be happy to work against Jeff. But I'm going to see this through, anyway. I'm betraying my people for you. You should be kissing my feet."

"Do not presume to know my thoughts, dearie."

"I presume nothing. Only logical deductions based on detailed knowledge of your character," their foreheads were almost touching now, "I can get back your money, with the help of your team. I can avert the crisis on New Year's and I can keep your reputation in tact. In return, the hustlers will not be harmed. That is all I ask, and it is a _good_ bargain, Gold. You know that. You know that if I walk out that door, you will never get your money back; you will continue to lose until Jeff's game is done. You will be forced to report this to the police because of the sheer sum of money you will have lost and the world will look at the Bellagio as the silly little establishment who allowed themselves to get robbed for thirty days and thirty nights without lifting a finger in retaliation."

Gold was unblinking for so long Belle's eyes began to water from the effort of keeping up. He finally said, so softly she had to move closer still, "I hope, for your sake, I don't regret this."

Belle straightened and drilled her scrutinising look into each member, forcing them to match her and not turning away until they did. Finally, she stood up. Inspite of all her bravado, Gold noticed the wobble in her ankles.

"I've had a lot of time to think. Surprisingly, hospital rooms aren't as interesting as everyone says they are," she quipped sarcastically. "The people who are stealing from you are under the leadership of my best friend, partner and the world's most innovative cheat architect. They're currently in the process known as tech tests – taking different parts of the whole con and seeing how successful the ideas work, as individual components. They plan to execute the big grab on New Year's Eve. If they are currently taking about fifty to eighty grand per night, then the Rabbit will be approximately one hundred times that amount. We're looking in the neighbourhood of five to eight million dollars."

"Oh lord," Mrs Lucas cried, unfogging her glasses, "They'll have to break into our vaults."

"That's not how Jeff works," Belle disagreed, "I know his MO, an entirely unique pattern that only he and I used – out of the thousands of professional con artists in the world. That was why all this secrecy surrounding my actual job here, was for nothing. I realised as soon as I knew the three roulette cheaters were red herrings. It was classic Jeff architecture. It took longer for me to get over the denial, but eventually I realised that if you knew to find me then you knew it was him. And even if he managed to get away with it come January morning, Gold would never stop chasing – never stop looking until he was dead and broken."

Gold raised an eyebrow at her words and she looked down on him, "But you've agreed to let them all go and so I will help you."

"Help how? You've been going on and on, but what exactly are you going to do that we have to all follow so intently?" Mal asked bitterly.

Belle grinned, "We're going to out-con the con. You're going to be my team."

"You want _us_ to...?" Mary Margaret shook her head in confusion.

"None of you are ever seen. You walk behind Ray Bans and your rides have tinted windows. You are the perfect people. Everyone in the criminal world knows everyone else. It would take months for me to gather a team of newbies who are mature enough to handle this. I can't just call up old friends and say, hey, I'm helping a corrupt mogul and betraying Jeff. It wouldn't sit very well. No, I'm using you. It's the twenty first of December, we have only ten days so we're behind a little. But you're all smart and without consciences, so you have half of what's needed already. The other half I can teach. But you have to listen. Is that clear?"

"Yes ma'am," David said with a small smile, his face much less blotchy than last she'd seen. Most of the swelling had died down too.

"Very good. Okay. First things first," Belle reached inside the suit she was wearing and took out two orange plastic cylinders. She passed them to Gold, "Everyone take one Prussian Blue capsule and then we can get started."

Gold unscrewed the white cap and took out one of the capsules. They watched him turn it in his fingers and take out his set of keys. He separated the match lighter key ring from the rest of the bunch and began unscrewing the top of that as well. Lifting whatever object was inside the gold and red scaled lighter up an inch. He dropped the blue pill into the cylinder and quickly tightened the top again.

"_If_ you are successful and all of my money returns to its proper place, I will let the thieves leave," Gold said slowly, "But if you should fail, or if some of the bounty is lost, or if I get even a whiff that, God forbid you be so foolish, you're attempting to double cross me – I can assure you, my dear madam Belle, that I will hunt down and kill everyone involved. No exceptions."

Belle turned her head away to keep him from glimpsing what he could imagine was a look of revulsion on her face. When she turned back around he was sneering with dilated pupils, an utterly abhorrent, bestial sadistic pleasure radiating from his person, he knew. He slowly rose into a standing position, neutralizing her height advantage and put a hand under her chin, tilting it up to look at him. He bared his teeth at her, finishing with a trifling snigger and a lick of his lips.

"And for _your _punishment, if you attempt anything...dishonest," he was practically breathless, "I will kill Grace."

"Go fuck yourself," she murmured through a film of tears. His hand had wrapped around her neck and a surge of power filled him from fingertips to toes. Gold waged a war within himself at the euphoric but uncalled-for wave of possessiveness.

"I have let you command this room. That is a liberty I don't hand out very often. I give you power over my people," he released her jugular, flexing his fingers, "Use it well. Succeed, dearie, it's in everyone's best interests."

"You are so afraid," she rubbed at her throat and his eyes latched onto the movement of her fingers, "Of what I can do to you. That I can get you to feel. Just _feel_ – something other than anger and weariness at the whole world."

Gold's eyes snapped back to her face and his felt his teeth baring, ready to retort before Belle turned her head away again and continued, ignoring his grunt of opposition.

"You push me away every time you get close to _feeling_, Gold. This time you threaten me. Why? I've told you I will help if not because I share your love of money, then because I know I'm the only one who can get you to lay off Jeff when I catch him – why do you feel the need to let that..._that_ inside you come out? Why?"

"I do nottrust you."

Belle plopped down into her seat and put her head into her hands. Gold could feel the weight of hundreds of foggy memories upon his shoulders. He knew she could feel it too. The words felt alien on his tongue. _I don't trust you...when did it get like this? _And what did she mean 'that' inside him?

"I will get you your damn money. You have my word," she muttered from under her hands.

Gold sat back down and said, almost entirely to himself, "Then it's a deal."

OOO


	6. Englightened To Truths

Bee had her cheek resting in the palm of one hand, flipping a pen between the fingers and over the knuckles of her other. Leroy had stopped holding vigil behind her two hours ago and was sitting straight backed on the seat to her right. Gold had his ankles on the table, arms crossed and eyes closed, as if he was sleeping. She looked around at the Evil Council of Evil and ran through her mental profiles.

Leroy. He was a conundrum. Strangely kind to her, in his own way, his presence oozed comfort and made her feel warm. Not safe, because Bee was far too worldly to ever truly feel safe, but nice and toasty inside. She'd never been one to keep pets, not having the time to juggle both school and work while her father was stationed overseas. It had just been her and the kitchen silverware for company and even then, life had been a hectic battle between keeping afloat with the bills and not failing her studies. There had barely been time for many friends, let alone another living thing to look after. Perhaps that was why Leroy was such a pleasant presence. He was like the big dog she'd always wanted. An Alsatian resting calmly at her feet, ears pricking at the least sign of danger and full of silent power.

There was something about him that set him apart from the others, like he didn't really belong. She wondered what his motives were. He obviously didn't approve of his employers.

Peeling her eyes away from Leroy, she settled next on Mary Margaret. Another enigma. She had her head on David's shoulder and her eyes half closed, her left hand absent-mindedly tracing doodles on the outside of her glass of water.

She had yet to figure out exactly what David did in Gold's company. He was writing with his right hand and speaking softly to the balding man on his other side. David was one of those do-gooders who got on her nerves for no other reason than that they reminded her of the kind of person she had once been. Looking at the yellowing bruises around his face and the scabs where he nails had scratched, Bee's gut twisted and she asked herself when violence had started to seem like a good solution to all her problems.

She supposed from the faint resemblance, and shared last name, that George Nolan was David's father. He seemed to be manager of the Wynn & Encore. In the few times he'd spoken to her, he'd preceded his words with a jutting chin and never gestured with his hands. They were placed very firmly upon the table and like his son, but unlike his soon-to-be daughter-in-law, he was right-handed. Bee could sum him up in two words: superiority complex.

Around the corner of the square formation of tables, was a man with long hair and unruly beard. He sat slouched in his chair, was constantly refilling his glass with some sort of alcohol from a selection of crystal decanters before him. At a glance, Bee saw cider and gin. There was something else that she couldn't quite be sure of, perhaps Korean soju because she didn't think he was a whiskey man. On his left was a small plate of pastries. He spoke often and with a viciousness that usually found its spur in the back of the woman with platinum blonde hair two seats down from him and his generous belly. When he spoke to the room as a whole, he looked up at the ceiling and the sole time he'd addressed Bee was when she warned them about contingencies and the necessity of a Plan B.

"Darling, don't jump the gun," he'd spoken to her chest, "Why are you planning a B when you're only an A?"

The blonde leaned over Profiler Hopper (red faced as ever and completely unspectacular in appearance or personality) and smacked him with the back of her hand.

Mal was a woman who used her sexuality to her advantage. With her yawning chest implants, self-conscious fluttering of her eyelashes and the way she held her smile so that it was almost a perpetual pout; Bee was certain she'd slept her way up the corporate ladder. When she wasn't glaring at the hedonistic Midas, she was inspecting her metallic green nails.

Beside her, Regina rested a chin against her knuckles and occasionally blessed the Council with her opinions. At those moments, Mal would laugh like it was the most hilarious thing she'd ever heard. The rest of the time, she glared at Gold and he made sure to glare back in the rare moments he cracked open an eye and surveyed the scene.

Sidney Glass was the PR manager to Regina's left. Bee supposed he must be charming and confident when he was out of her presence but all she could see was a grovelling lap dog who was a very proficient scribe. He asked relevant questions, offered suggestions and generally treated Bee with some level of civility but she was sure that if she'd been a beggar knocking on his door, he'd turn her away with a sneer. Ambition was the beginning and end of Glass. Bee saw it in the aristocratic curve of his forehead, the frown lines etched around his mouth that she knew came from years of looking down on his fellow man and the way he stared so disdainfully at herself when he thought she wasn't watching.

On the table that made up the left side of the square sat the Club Privé manager who Bee now realised was also head of casino staff. The woman, Hazul Superior, wore a perpetual smile. She spoke in a high pitched voice full of false cheer and looked everyone straight in the eyes.

Beside her was the old lady Regina and Mal called 'Granny.' She was stern and focused, intelligent, insightful and the only person who could ask questions of Gold and actually force him to answer. She fiddled with her glasses when she was uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking and was both good with numbers and good with words. She clipped her sentences at the end and had a way of grinding her back teeth whenever Mal and Midas went on one of their spiels. Her temper was short, and more than once she'd snapped at someone for saying something harmless – usually Hopper.

Finally, on the edge of the table closest to Gold, was a man with lots of trimmed scruff, young and very pleasant to look at. He had been called in after Bee began to run through the con and had demanded to know the person who manned the cameras. Graham was good at his job, sat a little to the left of his seat, closer to Granny Lucas than to Gold and generally had a smile for everyone. Regina cooed at him from her place across the square and he handled all her petting smiles with good grace and even thought to ask Bee how she was recovering.

"Well, why don't we ask Belle what she thinks?" David said.

Bee lifted her cheek off her hand and looked around, dazed from her observations and wondering what she'd missed. Stretching her left arm from where it had gone to sleep and feeling the joints protest, her body still aching and fragile, she looked around at the expectant faces.

"What have you been doing for an hour if not paying attention?" Madam Superior said, trying to keep her voice light but those lips of hers pursing even tighter together.

"Profiling," she said with a breathy sigh, waving at all of them. At their blank looks, she continued in the same weary tone, "Very important skill in my business. Superior could give you some tips. She does it all the time."

The woman blinked and looked angelic, smiling with those round, rosy cheeks. "Whatever do you mean, dear?"

"You like comparing people's morals to your own," Belle explained, only half-looking at her, the majority of her attention focused on Gold as he made a show of waking up and removing long legs from the tabletop.

"I'm guessing it's about redemption. You did something very bad once and have kept it a secret for a very long time. You were never caught but were consumed with your own guilt and have lived faultlessly ever since. You find enjoyment in dissecting other people's mistakes and then reflecting on what a good little girl you are in comparison."

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about," Superior said, her smile growing but her eyes narrowing imperceptibly.

"Embezzling funds from your employer?" Bee took a stab in the general direction and watched Superior's smile drop off her face.

"Superior with a rap sheet, now that's rich," Midas scoffed, "You little hypocrite, always telling me I need to 'rethink my life decisions.'"

"Actually you do," Bee interjected, "You're a misogynistic, gluttonous pig with an inferiority complex that you have buried underneath all the money and food and drink and sex. Speaking of, you're also having a wild affair with her."

Mal looked at the finger pointed at her chest and laughed loudly, almost hysterically shrill.

"Yes. You, Mal – don't get me started. I'm thinking daddy issues. You enjoy manipulating older men with your body and when you realised, I'm gonna say around your earlier twenties, that you could achieve so much more than being a hooker – you decided to learn a trade. Mechanics. Which then tells me that you're actually a tomboy who probably spent her whole childhood being emotionally abused by parents who were terrified their daughter was a lesbian. Which of course, explains the over compensation of your...assets and the three, or maybe even four, boob jobs."

Bee returned Mal's gaping mouth and heaving breast with a deadpan stare. Her tone wasn't insulting, merely a statement of facts but Mal had flushed to her temples and was wringing her wrists in a subconscious attempt to compose herself. She looked like she was about to cry. Bee soaked in the vindictive little pool she had made for herself. Careful not to look in Mary Margaret's direction, knowing that the woman would judge her for her harshness, Bee raced onwards.

"Regina," she spoke to the woman pointedly looking away from her, "You should give up trying to seduce Graham. You can't use your superior position within the hotel to blackmail him into sleeping with you. I pity your loneliness. There must have been some great tragedy in your life to make you so shut off to other people, that has forced you to buy human affection with threats that you can get him fired."

It was Sidney who spoke for her. "Regina has no interest in Graham. They maintain professional boundaries and there has been nothing untoward, Miss French."

"Which is what you've convinced yourself is the case," she said simply, "Given that you're in love her."

"That's enough." Bee turned towards the voice and immediately regretted it. Mary Margaret was standing up, looking incredibly hurt. "That's enough, Belle. I can speak on behalf of everyone when I say that we're sorry you're sick. But that gives you no right to torture them like that. People are allowed to have secrets."

"And what are yours?" she said softly, trying not to wince. She gripped the pen she'd just been twirling. Mary Margaret; perfect, faultless Mary Margaret who had probably never taken a single step off the straight and narrow in her life...

Gold and this damned Council had trapped her inside their politics, putting her in the cross-fires of their war with her own people and nearly killed her in the process.

_But you stole from them once, and were about to again. Of course they would punish you if you were caught...And they didn't poison you, your own kind poisoned you. You know there's no honour among theives._

As Bee struggled to keep her debate from showing on her face, David grabbed Mary Margaret's hand. She stared at their entwined fingers before taking a big breath and saying, "Before you humiliate me, I'd like to...confess myself. I was a con artist, like you."

Bee cocked an eyebrow and glanced sideways at Gold. He didn't seem to be listening to her declaration, seemingly deep in thought.

"I had a team, we called ourselves the Seven Dwarves, and we worked the precious gems scene in Antwerp and Milan," her eyes were shining but defiant. Bee knew her mouth was hanging open a fraction and licked her lips, trying to see a trace of the hustler in this enigma in white.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't pretend that my past doesn't exist and if the police came, then I would plead guilty and accept the consequences."

"That's very noble," she said blandly, looking around the room and realising that this wasn't news to any of them. Mary Margaret wiped a hand across her eyes and sat very tall, almost shrugging off David's quick embrace.

"Heist master."

"Where else did you think I'd stolen David's ring from?" Mary Margaret twitched the corners of her lips. If it had been anyone else, Bee would have read that as pride.

She'd heard of The Dwarves. Everyone who thought themselves of any importance had heard of them. She'd been just as surprised as anyone that the highly successful team had disbanded five years ago. Antwerp's famous diamond district and its safety deposit boxes, favourites with families and their heirlooms the world over, were notoriously had to crack.

"Bravo, Miss Blanchard. It's not everyday someone can put our dear Miss French in her place," Gold said harshly. He finally seemed interested in the developments and stood up with purpose. "The Goodwins arrive tomorrow, Mrs Lucas? Good, you will stay in one of our normal rooms from now on, dearie. Allow Leroy to escort you."

Bee, and Leroy, rose with the dismissal. She walked around the tables until she came to Mal who took the opportunity to whisper, "You better watch your back, _bitch_. There are bloddier ways to kill someone than with poison."

Bee grinned and bent down, whispering, "So you're the one Gold uses to torture his prisoners. Makes sense, a dungeon under the compound, in the maintenance department."

Satisfied with the expression on Mal's face, she whirled out of the door, held open by the accommodating Leroy. As soon as it shut behind them, she lengthened her stride into a brisk walk until he hesitated on the cusp of the lobby. Leroy pointed towards one of those nondescript doors no one ever noticed. Bee tugged on the handle and stepped through. Her guard slid in before the door closed and looked at her out from under drawn eyebrows.

"I thought you were never going to make the move."

"Sorry, my brain's in slow-mo," she muttered under her breath and began to walk down flights of stairs until a door at the very bottom held a sign reading 'Boiler room.' The panel on the side flashed red, waiting for authorisation. Bee grinned and took out a lavender coloured python skin purse. She flicked open the complicated gold clasp and fumbled inside. Finding the silver Bellagio employee's card, she flashed it against the laser: SCAN ACCEPTED.

Leroy took it from her fingers as she pushed through the reinforced concrete. It was deafeningly loud inside. Not one to raise his voice anyway, Leroy shook the card in front of Bee's face with an amused expression. Bee shrugged and placed it ('Head of Maintenance' and 'Mallory Fiche' in clear black font) back in the bag of the same owner. She meandered around through the huge machines of heat and air, thick white pipes twisting above them in a canopy of metal. The place smelled like an indoor swimming pool, steamy and slightly sterile but with an infused scent of something chemical. Coming across a stretch of wall bare of any equipment, she ran her hands along it, eyes close to the concrete and looking for any indentation. Leroy watched her with his arms folded, looking over his shoulder every few seconds with an air of unease.

"Ah," she said, her voice lost amidst the rumbling of the rest of the room. Pushing down on a section of concrete that was not concrete at all but a soft rubbery layer painted and textured to blend with the rest, it gave way under her palm and a whole rectangle of concrete began to move. The slab edged aside, painfully slow and revealed a metal door, circular like that of a vault. Fumbling for the card again, she swiped it down the side of the electronic lock, knowing that if there was one card that would open the door, it would be Mal's.

Sure enough, the thing seemed to spin a few degrees clockwise and popped from its locks with a loud sigh and a release of steam. The design was similar to a submarine door, water tight and climate controlled. She grabbed hold of the handles and pulled. Leroy came up behind her, helping with the weight. There was a square platform. They stepped inside. Bee swiped the card down a panel and a glass wall sliced down like a guillotine. They were inside a clear cube and could see the round door slowly pull close. The concrete cover on the outside had probably reached an electronic signal to slide shut again.

Bee was breathing heavily as the sounds of the boiler room faded, hoping that this was not some underground tomb she'd just walked into. As the glass elevator descended, they were swamped in darkness. After several seconds of high speed movement the thing came to a stop with a delicate clink. The front glass panel slid up with a swish. At least that's what Bee supposed was the sound because she was completely blind. The darkness was engulfing her lungs and she had to close her eyes to keep from losing control of her inner ear balance. Shuffling forward with a few tentative steps, she felt the ground under her feet change texture. It became smooth, like titles and suddenly rows upon rows of light flared into automatic existence. They were in a glaringly white room with doors lining three of the walls. Leroy joined her with a wary expression on his face.

It was silent. Bee wanted to drop a pin. He could hold perfectly still, his training giving him that advantage but Bee, who was used to movement and constant thought, fidgeted. After three days of lying on a hospital bed, she needed action and promptly jumped forward to inspect each door handle. They were stainless steel. She took out Mal's purse again and opened it up. As she expected, a palette of eye shadow and a circle of blush rested beside a tube of lip gloss. She passed the eye shadow to Leroy.

"You start on that side," she pointed to the left of the room. "Take the brush and powder some of the make up onto the metal handles. Call if you find a door with fingerprints."

"Can't we just open every door?"

"And get a nasty surprise? No thanks. Better just try the ones that have been touched recently."

He nodded, footsteps echoing oddly in the room. Bee stuck her nose into her own handles. After several minutes, Leroy called. She told him to wait at that door and continued until she found two others with half a thumb print and a middle finger. Three doors for three red herrings.

Walking over to Leroy and taking back the improvised forensic set, she gestured for him to proceed. They shared a grim smile before he made a fist around the door knob and pulled. The room was in darkness, the size of a small kitchen. The white light flooded in and Leroy saw enough to find the switch. The smell of something rancid filled Bee's nostrils.

It was the pungent odour of human waste and blood. On top of that, there was that indescribable stench of desperation. She looked at the pile of flesh, curled into a ball in a corner. It blinked in the light, obviously blinded by the brightness. Stripped naked, it huddled further into the wall, arms wrapped around its head. Bee blinked back tears and licked her parched lips. Leroy looked bewildered and furious. He rushed forward to break the cuffs. Using a technique Bee had only ever seen on hardened criminals, he picked the lock and pried open the metal using a fulcrum made of his own pinkie finger. She raised an eyebrow and watched him mutter hushes of reassurance to the girl.

Bee walked forward and tried not to think about the bruises and lashes all over her body. She closed her eyes, rubbing her cheeks with both hands and trying very hard not to give way to her sick and throw up. She shrugged off Leroy's jacket and put it around the girl, knowing even the light pressure of the cloth would hurt her tender flesh. After giving her back some of her modesty, Bee forced the woman to look at her.

"Is your name really Kathryn?" she asked, trying to make her voice as smooth and soothing as possible. The woman shook her head and gasped out something, having to cough and try several times before Bee, with her head practically pressed to the lady's lips, heard her utter, "Abigail."

She told Leroy to keep her company and went to release the other two prisoners; a Dr Frank Whale and another man whose identity she did not know. She clenched her fingers and told herself that running back upstairs and assaulting Gold would end in her own destruction. No, it was better to stick to their plan.

They stumbled back into the boiler room. Leroy had gone upstairs to steal bathrobes from the laundry area. The sound of the place was loud enough to drown out Bee's own thoughts (making her feel like she was screaming inside her own head, a strangely psychotic experience). Despite the chill of the room, she felt it was better for everyone's sanities to be away from the dazzling white lights of the torture chamber, reminding her too much of an illegal operating room. The noise had one advantage; it stalled conversation and gave her an excuse to be quiet. After all, she couldn't have thought of anything to say.

Sorry? For being one of you and switching sides and catching you and handing you to Gold who then tortured you?

'Sorry' wasn't going to cut it.

She was leaning against the back of one of the cylindrical machines, as large as concrete tumblers on the back of those trucks and as cool as the point of a knife. The guilt was eating at her and she found that no matter how long she looked at their grizzled bodies, it never really numbed. She wanted to retch with her head down a toilet bowl – one hand holding back her hair while the other strangled something. Metal filled her mouth and she told herself to stop biting her cheek. The knowledge that she had agreed to work with for these monsters was making her vision swim with nausea. Or perhaps that was the lingering effect of the thallium. She popped a capsule in her mouth and swallowed it dry.

Being a hustler, even a vastly successful one, meant that she was constantly on the run. As such, something inside her, a perpetual fuse box, alerted her to the presence of another person in the boiler room. Her breathing deepened, her legs found an energy they had thus far been missing. Slowly getting up, Leroy's gun in her hand, she put a finger to her lips despite knowing that the three could have lit a firecracker and not been heard above the din. Her own ears told her nothing was unusual but that inner fuse had broken and she knew there was an extra soul nearby.

She swung around the giant boiler, gun first.

"Leroy!"

He held up his hands in surrender but seeing it was only her, they both moved back to the three victims and wrapped them in fluffy white robes and slippers. Leroy had an arm under Frank and the man known as Fredrick, Bee had hers under Fredrick and Abigail. Their combined weights almost sent her plummeting to her knees. She gritted her teeth and forced still-feeble muscles to work. This was not a good day to be sneaking three people out from under Gold's nose. Just out of hospital herself she was becoming aware that she did not want to go back there so soon.

When they tumbled out into the concrete staircase, Bee had to let their arms fall. The door shut behind them with a crash and most of the noise was shut off. Without it, she could hear herself panting and wanted nothing more than to sleep. But grabbing one of the rails, she forced herself to remain standing, knowing that if she sat down on the bottom stair, she'd never get back up. Leroy lowered Abigail down beside the men and looked at Bee for directions.

"Leroy..." she began, catching her breath and not entirely sure of what to say, "Thank you."

He nodded, "What do we do?"

"Get them help," was all she dared to say, not knowing where she could get them treated without people asking questions. If this had been a city she frequented, like New Jersey or Venice, she'd have contacts in the underworld, ready to move if she sent out a distress signal. But here, she was alone and, as much as she didn't like to admit it, afraid. Even Leroy wasn't to be entirely trusted and the thought brought tears of hopelessness to her eyes. She needed to deal with Leroy first. He was too close to Gold and that was a liability. "We'll get them medical attention and then you can go. Give me your account number. I'll transfer funds as soon as I get out of Nevada."

Finishing his 911 conversation, Leroy stepped forward and practically pulled her upright where she'd slumped. It took all of her effort not to sink into his strong arms and give her poor legs a break. He shook her slightly, not enough to be threatening but enough to keep her eyes wide.

"You're paying me off, after what we agreed?"

"You're Gold's guard dog," she replied more than a little defensively. "Less than fifty thousand would be...an insult to you and your position."

"Ma'am," he said, looking angry, "You insult me by even offering."

She laughed in disbelief, "The deal you made in the car...You didn't know how much danger you'd be in. You definitely didn't expect _this_."

He let go of her and avoided her eyes. "I'm aware of the danger. That's why I asked for your help."

"To get Astrid out but not yourself. The consumate gentleman," she said wryly, then sombred and touched his shoulder, "Escape with me, Leroy. You've seen what Gold can do. I can make a call to get your girl to safety but what about yourself? When he finds out you helped me escape..."

"I can take care of myself, ma'am," Leroy said, bending down to pick up Frank and Fredrick once more.

Taking Abigail's arm and swinging it over her shoulders, she took a moment to adjust to the weight and tried not to think of five flights of stairs as gave Leroy a pained grimace.

"Keep Astrid safe," he said gruffly. "And keep your damn money. _Ma'am_."

She laughed at his jokingly patronising tone and that was just enough of a jolt to get her to start taking the tortuously slow journey up to the surface. By her calculations, Mal shouldn't have discovered the missing purse yet. Going on past experience, she had a thirty five minute window. Twenty of those minutes had already passed but once they reached the surface, it was only a few strides until she was out of that door. From there, it would take only three minutes until she could get back to her room at the Flamingo, grab her things and hail a taxi to Lake Mead in the west. There, in the vast national park, she could lay low for twelve hours until one of her contacts came to fetch her. It was going to be close but hopefully she'd make it.

They breached the apex of the staircase and pushed out into the maintenance corridor. This was were things got tricky. Graham's control room would have eyes on the lobby and getting out would have been hard enough if it had been merely Leroy and herself. Now supporting three extra people in bathrobes, the feat would be herculean.

"Okay," she was panting again, "I need you in the control room."

"Control room? You mean Huntsman's' Cabin?"

"The place with all the cameras," she shifted Abigail into a more comfortable position and took hold of both Frank and Fredrick, having to lean them up against the wall to keep them upright. Both their eyes were drooping. They were finally succumbing to the sleep that fear had warded off for three nights. Abigail had her head on Bee's shoulder and was already a dead weight.

"Keep their eyes off the lobby for five minutes."

He left with a brisk nod and Bee was alone, fighting for every breath. To her utter dismay, her sight blurred and no matter how rapidly she blinked, it didn't clear up. It was as if she was very drunk, or suddenly found herself needing glasses. A cold sweat congealed upon her upper lip and her arms shook with the strain of the men's weight. Combined, they more than tripled her own and she could taste her own fatigue in an unpleasant, sickly chemical flavour upon her tongue.

This was bad.

Forcing herself forward, her legs gave way and she crashed to the floor, the bodies falling with her. Abigail didn't even stir. The men only grunted. They were fading into unconsciousness and Bee was on all fours, her head bowed and eyes closed, trying to keep hold of reality. She was too weak to do this. She'd never make it across the vast circular lobby in time. As her body gave out, bit by bit, Bee gathered all of her energy to try and keep her mind clear. If she couldn't solve this riddle physically, she'd do it mentally.

_Think!_

OOO

In the Renaissance meeting room, Mal had finally composed herself and was gaining by measures, her self control. She felt in need of a freshening up and put a hand inside her coat for her clutch with the treasured lip gloss. Feeling nothing but air and panicking, hands going everywhere and then ducking under the table to feel inside her bag, Mal gave a little scream of frustration and leaned her forehead against the edge of the table, doubled over with her eyes squeezed shut.

"What's happened now?" said Mrs Lucas, unamused at being disrupted.

Mal threw her head back and screamed again. "That little thief stole my purse."

Mary Margaret furrowed her brow, "Why?"

"I don't know _why_! But I'm never getting it back now, am I? Did you know it's authentic Kara Ross snake skin? Limited edition, too."

Gold stood up with a clatter, "Your card was inside!"

Mal looked taken aback at his furious roar. "Yeah, so?"

He growled, feral, and brought his fist down onto the table. Everyone jumped. Looking around at their confused faces he explained with a roll of his eyes at their slowness, "The card. She's using it to go underground and visit our _guests_."

OOO

What tools did she have? Nothing. Her failing health and...nothing. She berated herself and thought again. Okay, start with a different question. What did she _need_? Something to move the injured bodies. Something to ease the weight off her hands. Something with wheels. What had wheels? Bee sat back on her haunches, hands on either thigh and squeezed her eyes shut, thinking frantically. What had wheels? What had wheels?

The bellboy's luggage trolleys!

She stood up and then collapsed against the wall from the vertigo. Bracing with clammy hands until the world stopped spinning, she looked down at the three lifeless bodies and made for the door, trying to tell herself it was normal for the edges of her vision to fade out like a blurred vignette. The lobby was full of people, and it took all of her concentration trying to appear inconspicuous while staggering over to the valet exit without crashing into anyone. The bellboys in their vests and ties stood beside a row of gold trolleys. The platform for the suitcases was even larger than those offered at airports. Four golden bars extended from each corner of the platform and joined at the top with a bulb, resembling a cage. Bee stole one and began to push it back the way she had come. She hoped Leroy was retelling his best bar tale with as many crude jokes as he could sneak in and snorted at the thought of the dour guard doing any good natured back slapping over a couple of drinks.

Pushing back through the door, she began to heave the bodies onto the cart, curling them into the foetal position and even then, Frank's head was in the back of Abigail's knees and she was positioned with her cheek on Fredrick's stomach. Struggling to catch breath again and leaning with her back against the wall, Bee couldn't fathom walking out there with these people.

"Come on, you only gave Leroy five minutes," she urged and fist pumped to herself, trying to liven herself up a little. Taking a gold bar in each hand, she pushed the trolley out into the open, feeling like she was wheeling corpses across the Bellagio lobby. People gasped as she walked past, looking at her definition of 'luggage' with horrified expressions. Thankfully, she needed so much focus to simply keep walking in a straight line, forcing one step after another with painful exertion, that she wasted no thought on anyone's reactions.

It was music to her ears when the ambulance sirens drew up and she waved to them as personnel moved out, looking for the injured. They didn't comment on her bizarre method of transportation and straightened each person onto stretchers. Bee swayed where she stood. One of the men offered to take her as well and she laughed hysterically, saying that she'd literally just been discharged. As they pulled away, shrieking with their red and blue sirens, she realised time was runnign out and crossed the street at nicely timed traffic lights.

The air was dry and there was no wind. It offered no refreshment and the dusk sky seemed to be bleeding. Knowing her speed was an issue, she attempted to blend into strolling tourists, joining a larger group and keeping them between her and the Bellagio entrance. At the Flamingo, she left them and made her way up those lifts.

Only three floors...three floors...

And she was outside her door.

With a sigh of relief, she instinctively stuck a hand in the pockets of her shorts and almost cried as her fingers curled around nothingness.

She didn't have her card. It was in the pocket of her jeans, probably being cleaned out of the penthouse suite this very moment to make way for the soon to be married couple tomorrow. Bee slapped a hand against the wall and rested her forehead on it. On a better day, she could have taken the dozen steps to the circuit board down the hall and overridden the entire security system, flooding the level with the sprinklers and unlocking her own room. She could have rushed inside and grabbed her things, called a taxi to meet her at the bottom and slipped into the back seat composed, if a little wet.

But today, she might have mustered up that energy as easily as she could have flown to the moon.

Without the card, she had no money, no phone and no supplies. Running without those necessities was like scuba diving without an oxygen tank. Impossible. Suicidal. Feeling the world devour her in dizzying twists and jerks, a suffocating ache in her chest, with her sight failing her and her legs giving up, she slid down the wall on her back. Her knees were drawn to her chest like a little girl, only keeping from sobbing by sheer exhaustion. Crying would take too much energy, better just to sit in a mindless daze and wait for the inevitable.

The inevitable came not ten minutes later. The pinging open of the elevator doors followed by the slow thud of the cane against the carpet. Bee refused to look up.

Gold didn't say a word; simply unlocked her room with what she could only imagine was some sort of master key coerced off the front desk. He then bent down and grabbed her shoulder. Bee want to jump up, demand he keep his hands off her but her migraine seemed to pinch a cerebral nerve and she doubled over in pain instead. Unable to open her eyes, the lights being far too bright, she couldn't see Gold move an arm towards her neck and plunge in a needle. She had just enough time to look groggily at him and make a strangled sound of surprise before the drug took action and turned her into jelly.

Gold managed to drag her into the room and deposit her safely upon the bed. He then took out a small envelope from the inside of his jacket, placing it carefully upon the side table. Beside it, he put the spare room card he'd taken off the Flamingo's manager. Before he could regret his decision, he left the room and made his slow progress back to the Bellagio.

OOO

Bee sat upright, back against a pillow and a letter open on her lap. Upon the letter was a profuse amount of hand written lines, very neat. It beared no signature, had no monogram and she did not recognise the writing. Thus, she began to read with no prejudice, only curiosity. It was recounting a tale of a father and a son, their love and their falling out over the father's profession and what was described as 'his means.' It was perfunctory in the retelling, not without emotion, but hardly lyrical and definitely not begging for sympathy. The prose read more like a legal document, explaining to the jury the relationship between the victim and the accused in an objective, detached air.

It wasn't until halfway down the document that the writer even addressed her. She moved her lips to the words, like a child learning to read.

"Therefore, you can understand how I would be feeling rather surprised to hear my son is back in town," she muttered, "That surprise was even greater when my private investigator Sidney Glass – oh hell, no. This is _Gold_."

She debated ripping it up, taking her things and continuing with her plan to leave the state, but her eyes kept being drawn back to one question, written quite near the start: _Would you believe me if I said I don't care for money? _

Sighing and reading on, too interested to put down the words, she murmured, "...when my private investigator Sidney Glass announced that he had been in town these past six months and is only known in the lowliest of circles. He has completely removed himself from my society or anyone who could have a connection to me. When news that a big heist would be occurring, orchestrated by your friend Sir Jefferson Wonders (not his real name but as suitable a name as any I think you'll agree), it was my opportunity to find him. If anyone would know where he is, it would be the type of people planning to rob me. So you see, Belle, my goal is not to retrieve the money, but to find the whereabouts of my son."

Bee read the last few lines, mostly reiterating what he had already said and concluding with: _Now that you know the truth, I expect to see you on my casino floor this evening. If my calculations are correct, the sedatives should have worn out by eight o'clock. Assuming you start work at nine, you will be expected to stay until three in the morning._ She laughed at Gold's presumptions and thought that there was no way she was going back to Bellagio, not after all she had seen, not even after the letter. She'd have preferred he told her face to face, but conceded that such a conversation would take place after pigs learned to fly. It surprised her that he had even written the letter. The fact that he was willing to reveal such an intimate history affected her greater than the history itself. The story was sad, yes, that was assuming it was even truthful – but given the company she kept, every hooker on the street corner had such a sob story to share.

When you spent your life playing with broken toys, a tale about a rich guy and the greed that caused him to lose a sensible son was not enough to tug at her heartstrings. Bee swung her legs over the side of the bed and was pleasantly surprised to find herself feeling much stronger. Whatever was in that needle had helped, she was sorry to admit. She might have to get that recipe off him.

"Wait, wait, wait," she stopped fumbling through her suitcase for a change of clothes and froze, "Are you really considering going back there?"

Kneeling on the ground for several moments, Bee finally shook her head and altered her movements to begin packing. With her suitcase and a backpack over one shoulder, she exited the building. Making the curb and seeing the taxi she had called, she gladly dumped her stuff in the boot and slid into the backseat.

"Lovely evening isn't it?"

Bee hid her jolt of surprise and put on her seatbelt to give her some time. _Psychic bastard_."Certainly Mr Gold."

"Ah, 'mister', it has been too long since you've used that moniker."

Gold told the man they were headed to the Bellagio. The driver found a place to U-turn. Bee clasped her hands, "This isn't what it looks like."

"You're not running away?"

"No," she improvised, feeling her usual snappy tongue return to her like an old friend, "Joy ride."

"Ah, my apologies for intervening on your criminal fun," he said with an equally light tone. She wondered if either of them would mention the chamber beneath his hotel, or if it would become just another taboo subject between them. Personally, she thought there were far too many topics they weren't allowed to discuss, stemming from some silent agreement long ago.

"So. I would have figured that it would be harder to clean blood off white walls, than say, black ones."

Gold was silent for a long moment. They alighted from their vehicle and he paid the fare, even going as far as to collect her suitcase from the back. She watched his left arm lift the heavy thing without even a grimace. For a crippled man, she'd forgotten the strength of his healthy side. It hinted at a more physical past, when a younger Gold probably settled disputes with his fists instead of his drawling deals and half promises.

"I must commend you on your acting skills," he said as they entered the lobby. Bee tried to hide her sense of entrapment. This was becoming like déjà vu, a constant loop of her finding herself back to the Bellagio pinned under Gold's hand. "For someone just out of hospital, you played quite the pantomime back at the meeting. The riveting speech, all that poetry about Jeff and freedom, the pretend boredom at the proceedings when in actual fact you were plotting a way to get Mal's maintenance card without her noticing. However did you figure out that her distraction was ensured as long as you made her angry?"

"I didn't lie about the profiling," she said, "It wasn't hard."

"Did you and Leroy plan the escape from the very start or did you turn him during his stays with you at the hospital?"

"The hospital. It took me awhile to gauge his loyalty to you," she said as they walked past Ruby, who widened her eyes and busied herself with the computer, terrified they'd approach. Gold flashed her a smile full of teeth before returning his attention to Bee.

"What a shame, now I have to fire him."

"You don't want to do that," she said casually, every step bringing back her strength. They stopped outside the elevators. She noticed it wasn't the same as her usual one. They had already switched her room. "I need him if you want to find your son," she lied.

Gold looked askance at her as they stepped in the elevator. "I doubt that but I will humour you, madam." There were other patrons and neither dared to say more. She let Gold take her to the fourteenth floor and lead her into an empty carpeted corridor. It was not as beautiful as those for the suites but still had the 'Bellagio' stamp.

"You read the letter and yet you still planned to run. I overestimated your humanity, my dear."

"I wasn't going to run," she corrected with a sigh, "I was going to find him."

They came to a stop before one of the doors and Gold looked perplexed, as if he was waiting for her to say April Fools at any minute. She drank up the rare expression about his generally smug mug before tkaing pity and breaking the confused silence. "It's been years since I've been in this city, I'll admit, but there are still strings I can pull and people who'll talk with the right incentive. You didn't have to resort to torturing them for information. I could have had him by noon tomorrow if you'd let me 'escape' from the Flamingo and word spread that I wasn't trapped under your wing anymore."

"Noon?"

"They'll know you stole me back," she said looking into his eyes. For once, it was Gold who broke the gaze first.

"How long do you need?"

She thought for a moment, "A favour."

"You play with fire, dearie," he said harshly, obviously not liking her terms. "Your favour will be me keeping the evidence of your crimes from the eyes of the authorities and letting Jeff and his girl go unharmed. Now, tell me, how long?"

She stepped through the door and saw a modestly sized room with blue carpet and blue striped wallpaper. It was still double the size of her Flamingo shoe box but it was less obnoxious than the penthouse. Fresh violets sat in simple vases and the bed was quilted with very plain beige sheets.

It was what was upon this bed that caught her attention and all thought of Gold's question, and his mercies, vanished as she picked up a grey piece of cloth. Holding it up, Bee thought she smelled cigarette smoke, hairspray, the sharp scent of many spirits mixed together, sweat entwined with the toxic tang of body glitter, cologne and new car smell, the musk of freshly pressed shirts. Feeling stubble against her cheek, fingers running down her sides, Bee almost forgot Gold was in the room, so consumed in uncalled for recollections. Brushing her palms across the Hard Rock Cafe shirt, she wheeled around and saw Gold looking at his feet, leaning against the wall.

"You kept it."

"Yes."

She pressed her lips together to keep from saying something she'd regret, something sentimental and weak. These sensations didn't usually assault her and they certainly shouldn't make her throat close up or her stomach clench. Damn that Gold and his mood swings. If only he could stick to one persona and then she could decide once and for all whether or not she was supposed to hate him. Things would be simpler. Her mind told her she was should be yelling at him for his medieval Dick Cheney impersonation but her hands were clutched around her favourite old shirt and there he was, refusing to meet her eye and fiddling with his cane. Looking almost vulnerable, the psychic, cocky, selfish, sadistic bastard.

"This doesn't make up for what you've done."

He finally looked up, "That was not the intention. I'm merely returning something that belongs to you."

"Right."

"Get me my son and do it soon," he said, bringing it back to business though she noticed his neck was tighter than usual, "Now, there is an assortment of clothing in that armoire and someone will fetch you in half an hour."

"If you don't care about the money," she said with a small, knowing smile, "And you know I can get your son – then why do I still have to stop the heist, huh?"

Gold inhaled thoughtfully and pretended to weigh her words beofre settling on replying with silence. They both knew the answer. She'd keep working his floor because she was just that much of a junkie – she needed the thrill of the con. And the even more intoxicating thrill of the anti-con. Bee bit her lip and dropped the shirt, perched at the end of the bed and staring at the opposite wall.

"He ran away because you chose...the work," Bee made a vague gesture with her wrist, "And years later you met – "

The word died on her lips. _Me_. She turned to him and found him inspecting her with a kind of detachment she knew was fake. "Do you regret it?"

Gold remained in that calm shell as he strolled towards the wardrobe and dragged it open. She looked at the rows of coat hangars, at the way his hands caressed the fabric with soft strokes, his eyes glazed and head slightly bowed.

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character – "

"Give him power," she completed the sentence with a murmur. "Lincoln."

"When your father – "

"Don't speak about my father."

Bee had wandered over until she was only a hand breadth from his side. She didn't meet his eyes, joining him in inspecting the clothing, a shiver running down her spine as she looked at a silk dress – floor length with gold highlights and a huge hole cut in the midriff. It was an intepretation on the pallu sari she'd worn at El Cortez.

"You were powerless to help him," Gold said, not above a whisper but she heard the words as if he'd yelled them in her ear.

"Stop."

Touching another piece that caught her eye, she saw a huge, flouncy navy and white polka dotted jacket with girlish ribbons at the waist and cuffs. She recalled the time she had worn a novelty raincoat with polka dotted umbrella and a huge ribbon in her hair, walking down Freemont promenade and about to enter the Golden Nugget when she had spotted Gold buying a cone from Wendy's.

"Hopelessness is a cancer, it eats you from the inside. An ache. Power is not a choice. It's a lifesource."

Bee raised her head a fraction and saw him looking intently at her, a hand resting on his creations. And she was sure they were his idea. Not replicas of clothing she'd worn nearly a decade ago, but visual constructions of what he'd seen her in. They were physical memories. A frozen tribute to another time. Like the wardrobe of someone who had died.

"What would you know of hopelessness?"

Gold was so close. She could see the beginnings of tears in his eyes. He mouthed one word. _Belle_. A plea.

"I sold my soul to help my father," there was no voice behind her, only a breathy sort of air. Like choking on her own heart. "Your son could have done the same for you, in another life. Ask yourself why he turned away."

Not taking her eyes off him, she slowly ran her hands down the finest fabrics money could buy, with their hand sewn details.

"Don't be cruel."

"Me? Cruel? Do you think he would have wanted to come back to you, if you found him through torturing others – whipping them, beating them, giving Mal free reign? Did you think you could ambush him and trap him inside your hotels? That being here was enough for him to suddenly love you again?" Bee's voice was wavering now, and she knew that they weren't just talking about Gold's son anymore. "There's a difference between being here and _being here_."

Gold's hand wafted over a piece of organza and touched hers for a fraction of an instant and she closed her eyes, opening them to hear him say with a stony grin – and a touch of what she might call uncertainty in any other human being.

"When did you start hating me, Miss French?"

Carefully, with a rueful smile, she placed her palm flat against his chest. He flinched and looked down at his lapel before meeting her gaze again, now definitely uncertain.

"When I realised you didn't have a heart," she applied a gentle pressure then took two steps back, putting space (a universe) between them, "only a 'lifesource'."

OOO

Bee finished her shift at the OG Gentlemens Club an hour before dawn and was sitting in front one of the mirrors in the communal change rooms. She'd been working in the large white building, the words 'Olympic Garden' and 'Topless Cabaret' displayed in red and yellow neon lights, for three weeks now. Her eyes were rimmed in black, done as tastefully as she dared, and without even a hint of a waver. She was getting better at this applying make up business – not that she exactly had a choice.

After a stubborn refusal to do anything with her appearance, she ended up going home with zero dollars for four nights running. Ursula, the hideous woman who was supposed to care for the dancers, hadn't even needed to make a snide comment for Bee's own brain to catch up. Either continue to make no money night after night, keep her shirt _on_, but work at the club forever – or play the part, make back the $900,000 she'd robbed off de Vil and get out as soon as possible.

By her calculations, she needed to earn $5,000 per night for 180 nights running. That was six months straight. De Vil had made it very clear. She would work for six months minimum, every dime being handed straight to Ursula, and then she would be free. If she exceeded the $900,000 debt before the six months were up, she'd still have to work pro bono until then. If she didn't make the money in time, she would work until she did. Whether that be seven months, a year or the rest of her life. With four days gone to waste already, she now needed to make $5,114 each night. A little conversation with the other dancers and she quickly discovered that the general average, since none of the girls revealed how much they really made, was somewhere between $50 and $500.

Jeff had said they could flee the country but she'd stopped him mid-rant, insisting that she didn't want to reveal him as her accomplice. She had been caught. He hadn't. Therefore, she would pay her due and he would continue doing solo cons while she worked as one of de Vil's strippers. No need to attempt a reckless escape plan and spend the rest of their lives running from the mafia. A trodden toe in Vegas meant a red card in the north-eastern block, Texas, Florida, Los Angeles, Chicago and (the deal breaker) Detroit. If Carmella sent out a bounty for her head and that stopped Bee from ever returning to Detroit...to her father...well, she couldn't even begin to imagine. No, the only choice had been to work at the club and if working meant becoming someone else entirely, then so be it.

Bee took as deep a breath as her restricting corset allowed and slowly began to pop open the hooks. The idea had been to force her to work the VIP room, where nude dancing was the general request. But given the shambles her first night, the ice ruckus with Gold and her general refusal to cooperate – Ursula had spoken to de Vil and they'd agreed that keeping the high paying customers happy was more important than Bee's humiliation. Besides, putting her on the main floor meant she'd be competing with more girls and earning less each night, forcing her to stay far longer than her six months.

Running a hand through her loose hair, flowing and long like the customers preferred, she did a quick sum in her head and realised that with her current average of $60 per night, she would be here for 41 years. She never thought she'd be begging for a position back in the VIP room. The fact that she didn't know how to dance in the least was something she'd worry about later.

Putting on her beloved Hard Rock shirt and swinging a leather jacket around her shoulders, she hung her costume away and did what she could to pull back her hair and remove the lipstick with a tissue, unhook the dangly earrings and slip into comfortable shoes. She needed a coffee. It was something she had previously despised – never understanding the appeal. But after a few nights at the club, it had become a staple of her diet. Rich and bitter and hot and soothing.

Pushing through the backdoor, opening out into the staff parking area facing the Strip, Bee headed towards the 24hr diner only twenty paces away. It was a tiny cubed building, decked in red, white and blue opposite the gas station. One of those places that offered Chinese food, phone cards and lunch specials for $3.85. Around the corner, sharing the same building was Luv-It Frozen Custard. The girls at the club hailed it as the best order-from-window eatery in the city. Too bad it was closed. Taking her usual at All Star Doughnuts, the wife of the man who owned the place cut her off mid-speech with a nod and "Ya, sweetie, like yesterday." Bee took a stool at the single counter running down the small shop.

"Good show tonight."

She almost fell out of her seat. The man behind a newspaper lowered his Las Vegas Sun and grinned roguishly. He asked to be allowed the seat beside her and she gave a bob of her head and a hopeless giggle. Did she really have a choice when he took off his hat in so gentlemanly a manner?

"Have you been stalking me?"

"Here it is, sweetie," the waitress bustled over, "Long black. Bear claw. Sausage and cheese kolache. I add apple fritter for free, you look so tired today."

"Thanks Mrs Lee," she shared a smile with the friendly Cambodian lady who patted her hand with a motherly smile and bustled away. Gold looked at the abundance of food before her.

"Kolache?"

"Pigs in blanket," she said around a mouthful of fritter.

"Yes," he frowned and prodded her plate with a finger, "But at four in the morning?"

Shrugging and downing half the searing coffee in one gulp, she blinked innocently, "Breakfast!"

He snorted and returned to his paper without interest. She watched from the corner of her eye, licking apple off her fingers without caring for table manners. Gold's hand was lingering on the plate of her kolache. Swallowing her food, with just enough self-consciousness to keep from spitting bits of honeyed pastry at him, she said solemnly, "You watched me tonight. I thought you only came on Saturdays, and only in the VIP?"

He seemed to stop reading with relief, as if she'd given him an excuse to look at her and speak, "I do. Except I find that you have been avoiding me these last two weeks."

"I haven't been avoiding you," she said sullenly, "Ursula put me downstairs. Pouring drinks and giving lapdances."

"You are quite proficient at both, my dear," he said with a small smile.

"How long were you in the club?" she asked, struck by the thought that he must've waited all night.

"Long enough to know that your skills with those miserable looking heels have improved dramatically since my last viewing."

"Well, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do," she lilted, starting on the bear claw with relish.

"What_ did_ you do?"

She didn't understand the question and continued to munch, only now feeling awkward that she was eating a whole meal and he had nothing. "What did I do what?" she mumbled unintelligibly. "You don't wanna eat? Have my kolache," she pushed the plate he was already holding. His fingers jumped off the porcelain like it had burnt him. Bee rolled her eyes, "You stayed the whole night waiting for me – the least I could do is pay for your breakfast."

"I really would rather not impose," he said uncomfortably, staring at the plate. "How did you anger Carmella?"

"Don't be stupid. I'd be starving if I were you. You can't live off $20 coronas the whole night. Or do they give special sandwiches to VIP's even when they're out of the VIP room?" she practically shoved the dish across to him. Satisfied only after she saw him take a hesitant bite, accompanied by an eye roll of his own, she finally thought of his question. "You and de Vil are on a first name basis?"

"Keep your enemies close, as they say," he began to eat more enthusiastically. She beamed, her chin jutting forward in triumph. "So you _are_ hungry. Ha!"

"A petty victory, Miss French," he said without spite, a growing smile tugging at his lips, "Petty."

"Well," she waggled a finger, "Since you've been such a good boy and eaten your dinner, I will happily say that de Vil and I are on perfectly good terms and I've done nothing against her. The situation is under control."

"You are a terrible liar," Gold leaned in and inspected her eyes. She looked away and hid her face behind the coffee cup. "I've never seen someone so terrible at lying."

Dropping the cup with a dramatic sigh and lifting her palms to the ceiling she looked at him with wide eyes, "What can I say? I'm such an honest soul most of the time. And...and maybe, I don't want to tell you too much because you could be de Vil's spy! Yes," she bluffed, almost laughing at herself, "Yes. That's it! You never did watch the show tonight, you've been waiting out here ready to corner me and take me to your dear friend 'Carmella.'"

Gold laughed and she couldn't contain her giggles. Placing a hand on his arm and shaking with glee at her own story, she felt him brush a light hand over her neck, moving aside the hair that had obscured her bowed head. He whispered, "Blue corset. Black lace. Something about how attractive men are when they own mega yachts."

She looked up at him, now with her head upon her arms, crossed on the counter and leaning across her seat until she was practically underneath his chin. "I only said that because he was going on about how he had a yacht and a jet and a mansion in Hollywood Hills."

"He was lying."

Bee made a noise between a grunt and a scoff, "_Yes_, Mr Obvious. I'm not stupid."

"Naive."

"Excuse me?"

"You are very naive," he repeated, fingers hovering over her face, waiting for her permission to touch. She smiled and he thumbed the baby airs on her temples, so lightly she could barely feel it. He continued, speaking as if in a daze, engrossed in dancing his fingertips over her hair, "If you were less naive, you would have run very, very far away from me."

Bee sat up and reached her arms around his shoulders. He would have jumped up if he didn't know that moving backwards would cause him to fall off the stool. Resting her forearms on either side of his head, she was almost out of her own seat, their foreheads close but not quite touching.

"And why would I want to run?"

Gold had his mouth slightly open, he didn't seem to be breathing and when she squinted one eye and pressed her lips as if in a kiss he jerked forward half an inch, gaze dropping to her mouth. Continuing her flirt, Bee pulled back ever so slightly and his eyes flickered back at to her own, uncertain. Afraid. She pressed, "Why would I want to run, helpful stranger?"

Gold wriggled out of her arms and picked up his cane, "Thank you for the meal, Miss French." And with that. He was gone. Bee looked after the swinging door with a confused crease of her forehead then smiled down at the leather object in her hand.

"Thank _you_ for the wallet."

Taking out a few cents from one of the compartments, she placed it upon the counter and stuffed the remaining bite of bear claw in her mouth, washing it down with the rest of the lukewarm coffee. Mrs Lee came forward, a knowing glint in her intelligent brown eyes, "Keep a hold o' that one, sweetie."

She laughed and shrugged it off, "It's nothing. I barely know him."

Mrs Lee made a noncommittal sound as she cleared away the plates. It only made Bee more curious. "What?"

"He's very big man. Very rich," she said with a slow nod at Bee's confounded expression. "Owner of Bellagio."

"_What?_"

"Mhmm," the lady gave Bee one last little smirk and even half winked. "Yes, sweetie. Keep him very close."

Bee gasped and laughed, gobsmacked as she opened up the wallet and looked at the business cards. As was her habit, she muttered words as she read them, "Gold von Furstenberg. Managing Director. Proprietor. The Bellagio Las Vegas..."

"I believe you have something of mine."

Bee jumped up, keeping the wallet and card clutched to her chest. Gold had returned and with narrowed eyes, stalked towards as she backed against the far wall. "You should've taken better care of your things, Mr Gold."

"Ah, but you see, dearie," his voice almost snakelike, "It is not everyday I come across a professional pickpocket."

Bee's shoulders slumped and she closed the few steps between them, prodding him in the chest with a finger and a pout, "I am _not_ a pickpocket. That's so insulting."

"What are you, pray tell?"

She kept his wallet carefully behind her back and he attempted to reach around her. Side stepping him, more nimble than he was with his cane, she rushed back to the door. Thinking carefully and with a proud, defiant nod, she stated, "I am a freelance businesswoman."

"Miss French..." his tone warning.

"If you want this back," she waved his property, one hand already opening the diner door, "Then you'll have to come back to the club tomorrow and actually _talk_ to me this time. And tip."

"Without my wallet?" he tilted his head to the side, looking forlorn. A big, lost puppy.

She leaned forward and shook her whole upper body, crinkling her nose, "I'm sure you have lots more where that came from...Mr _Bellagio_."

Gold opened his mouth to retaliate but then left it hanging there. Bee flashed a wicked smile and disappeared into the early morning. He didn't bother trying to chase her, a wry smile upon his face. Looking at Mrs Lee, he gave her a stern frown but she simply shrugged in reply, playing the role of disinterested outsider. Letting her slide for the moment, yet knowing there was no one else who could have told Belle his real occupation, Gold slowly made his way to the door and stepped out. The sun had risen and turned the sky a delicate fairy floss. He looked down the road and saw her walking with her grey shirt peeking out under that jacket, legs hidden under jeans and running shoes. Briefly recalling her corseted number, Gold took out his phone, happy she hadn't nipped that from him too. He dialled a familiar number. As he listened to it ring, he thought about her nifty grab. He'd had pretty good hands himself, back in the day, but her lift had been flawless. His wallet lived inside his jacket, in a concealed inner pocket. With a _zipper_. Beside his jangly keys.

Had he really been that distracted by her closeness? The thought gave him pause. A woman's voice answered on the other end and he filed the revelation away for later consideration.

"Carmella, we need to talk."

OOO

* * *

**All Star Doughnuts and Luv-It opposite the club are actually 'critically acclaimed by locals.' Though All Star technically closes at midnight. Eh, artistic liberties. Jimmy Lee does own it though :)  
**


	7. Profiled By Pros

Gold tipped the busty maitre D halfway through her usual spiel about premium service and 'extras'. The music was something slower than usual. Less grinding, more Marilyn Monroe. One of the dancers must be doing a show then, probably a beginner since they usually gave the softer songs to the less experienced girls.

_I just wanna touch you, tease you, lick you, please you..._

He hesitated on the bottom stair to the suites, glancing briefly over the downstairs portion for a familiar bit of brown hair and that slightly unsteady gait of someone new to walking for hours in painful shoes. She was nowhere to be seen, though the darkness didn't exactly help. For all he knew, she could well be that pair of those limbs curled around one of the men in the booths along the far wall, whispering sultry sweet nothings in his ear. The thought made Gold eager to get upstairs, grab a bottle of high quality alcohol only served to the VIPs and hurry back down to fetch her away from whatever low life was running his hands all over her.

_I'm gonna kiss you, suck you, taste you, ride you..._

As loyal as he was to the Gentlemens Club, what with keeping on Carmella's good side and all, the lax rules about touching were starting to bother him. He'd never thought much about etiquette, never being one to call for a dance except in some particularly abnormal exigent circumstance. He almost wished there was a clear hands-off sign hanging on the wall. It would spoil the atmosphere a bit but it would offer the dancers a little dignity. Not that Gold, tipping the waitress, had ever cared much about dancer dignity prior to that very moment. Cane coming to a final thud at the bottom, he was immediately accosted by a blonde woman with long hair extensions.

_Baby would you mind tasting me..._

Completely ignoring her, practically pushing her aside with the butt of his stick, Gold looked around for a suitable seat. It had taken him his two Saturdays without Belle to realise she'd probably been moved to another area of the club. And with three solid nights of downstairs experience under his belt, Gold was now well equipped to deal with the ruckus of the general area. Without a couch stamped with his name on it, he had to find his own seat. An ideal area would be in a booth along the back, beside a couple, mildly intoxicated so that they didn't notice his presence. He didn't like being near lone men or big party groups. Both were...unpleasant.

_Bathe you, play with you, rub you, caress you..._

Finding a couple, in their late twenties, chatting to one of the girls with half empty glasses on the table before them, Gold settled into the empty place to their left. By happy coincidence, he'd found that it was the last spot along the entire wall and there was no booth to _his_ left. He loved corners. Corners were his absolute favourite.

"Can I get you a drink?" a topless brunette sidled over. Gold continued to sweep the floor with his piercing gaze and waved the square-based Johnnie Walker Blue Label bottle. A clear signal that he had all he needed, thank you very much. She lingered. In an attempt to shake her off without having to say something too insulting, what with his newfound care for the girls, Gold looked up at the stage.

For a moment, doused in light, twisted in an obscenely erotic position upon the pole, Gold didn't notice who the dancer was. His peripherals were focused on the lady beside him, who looked rather insulted anyway and sauntered away with a flick of her hips. Certain that she, nor any other tiresome girl, would return to disrupt his solitude, Gold finally gave his unwavering attention to the person writhing to the music. At that moment, she had her back to the audience, bending over and giving them all a very good show of her backside.

Gold recognised her body immediately. How many hours had he studied it from afar?

_Baby would you mind coming inside of me..._

Entranced by her movements, so fluid, Gold didn't even have space in his suddenly distracted mind to wonder how much she must have been practicing. Not taking his eyes off her legs, endlessly long and wrapped around the pole, a shoddy substitute for human flesh – the only proper home for those weapons – Gold reached blindly for his cane before using it to crawl closer towards the halo of light. At this distance, he could see her eyes were closed, her face blank and almost blissful. He'd never noticed the muscles upon her arms, supporting her in midair. They were taunt and glistening with sweat or oil. In fact, her entire upper body was toned to perfection. He had just enough sense to realise athletic ability to defend oneself must be a vital part of her career. Before he could dwell on the realisation that young Belle could knock him down, Gold's eyes and everything else he usually had control over, had taken to staring wholeheartedly at her chest.

_Love you, hold you, make love to you..._

She was wearing a bed sheet masquerading as a skirt of some sort. It was loose pale silk and slipped over her skin, her knees and ankles and thighs, with a slippery sensuality as she moved. Her upper body was as naked as could be. The 'skirt' hung low on her hips and Gold was uncertain as to whether or not she wore anything underneath it. He spent much time seeking an answer, looking where no decent man should have, trying to catch a glimpse between her legs as she swung around the pole again and hung upside down, her breasts bouncing as she arched her back.

_Letting your juices free, deep in my passion..._

As the song dissolved into moans and whimpers, pants and mewling sounds of pleasure, Gold found he was quite unable to stand still. He looked away from the stage, the dark of the rest of the room calming him, gathering some morsel of self-respect. Taking out his new wallet, he counted ten bills and rolled them into a thin cigar. As the song ended and the crowd bayed in approval, Gold slipped off a thin gold band from his finger and put it like a napkin ring around the money. Looking up in time to see Belle give a wan smile to the audience, he saw her begin to pick up the dollars they had shrewn at her feet. Some of the rather nicer patrons walked up to the raised platform and tipped her a hefty twenty, getting a close up of the beauty and a few genuine smiles in return.

As she straightened from her crouch, the heel of her left foot slipped and she wobbled, almost twisting her ankle. Belle's eyes rolled up to the ceiling and she seemed to be silently berating herself. Gold bit his tongue to keep his laughter in check. Of course, she could memorise a routine well enough. But ask her to totter around without a musical rhythm and she was still the same girl who squealed at winning the Keno jackpot – despite already knowing that she'd rigged it. Throwing the ring of bills over two tables and several heads, Gold heard it clink at her feet. Belle bent down, taking more care to keep balanced this time and picked it up with a frown. She'd managed to relax back into a fake smile by the time anyone else noticed her confusion and as she searched for the thrower, their eyes met.

Gold took the dozen steps back to his booth and ran a hand down the cool glass of the bottle. As he waited for Belle to approach, he unscrewed the cap and inhaled the heavy scent of the whiskey. Strong, just as he liked it.

"$100? That's very generous."

Gold didn't need to look up to hear her sardonic smile, instead fumbling around in his coat pockets aimlessly. "Go fetch me two glasses, would you?"

She made a sound of disapproval but returned with the crystals in a moment. Finally obliged to look up, he saw that she had lifted a scrap of material, which in the dark appeared a gauzy purple, up to her chest, holding it there with one forearm. Apparently the loose bits could be pulled up like a towel and wrapped around her body, halfway towards being decent. She didn't sit but poured one shot with a steady hand. He was impressed.

"None for yourself?"

"If you want me to stay, that's 100 for an hour and –"

"Sit, dearie," he said tersely.

Belle dropped like a rock and silently tipped herself a drink, not a trace of amusement on her face. Gold had expected her to be in a better mood, full of pithy remarks and twinkly eyes. She looked like she'd just had sex, wrapped the sheets around her and strolled to the kitchen – but Gold would have preferred her in old sweats and sneakers, if she would just give him a smile. Looking at her from the corner of his eye, taking out a cigar and lighting it with his matchstick key ring, he reclined in his chair and looked at a troupe of dancers that had taken to the stage as a heavier tune start to pump through the place. In the tipping aisle, only three men stood, the rest sitting back around the small circular tables.

"I'm surprised they liked me," Belle said, noticing the subdued atmosphere in the club. The five dancers were dressed in skimpy lingerie and were not all bad to look at. They swung their legs around the poles in effortless elegance, with a sass Belle had lacked. Gold finally conceded to look at her and searched her face for any false modesty. Finding none, he joined her in watching the show – he in absentminded distraction while she seemed to study them in confusion. "They're great. Why aren't the men getting excited?"

Gold thought about it too. Why did he find Belle's dance so much more attractive than this? This had more girls, a faster beat, complex moves. Yet where were the hollers and whistles? The gasps and mutters and the 'oh damns' that had been aplenty while Belle had been on stage? Gold's mind wandered, replaying what little of her act he had caught. He couldn't quite understand it.

"Whatever convinced you to dance, Miss Klutz?" he said instead, watching her stare miserably into her little shot of liquor.

"More money."

"$900,000...that would've been quite a haul. If you had gotten away with it."

"You spoke to de Vil?"

"I failed to convince her to rescind on your punishment, my apologies dear."

Belle shrugged and held the silk closer to her skin. Taking off his own jacket, a snake-skinned number as thick and textured as ever, he shrugged it over her shoulders. This time, Gold had been careful not to keep any valuables in his jacket pockets, choosing to leave most of them in the car with his chauffeur or have them close to his skin in his trouser pockets. Not that it would stop her, he suspected, if she really wanted to steal off him. Belle clutched the jacket close and she seemed to relax into it, allowing the soft inner lining to cushion her. It was a show of his own slightness that the shoulders weren't really that big and the waist didn't hang limply. It looked fashionably oversized. He hid a grin behind a downing of liquid. Trust Belle to make anything look decent. Perhaps that was it: Belle just looked better than the other dancers.

Glancing back at the stage where three of the girls were occupying one pole in an orgy of limbs and hair, Gold had to disagree with himself. Frankly, this meat market contained pretty choice cuts all around. It wasn't that Belle was more beautiful, for those dancers occupying the stage were equally stunning in their own ways. Looking back at his quiet companion, Gold realised with a jolt that she seemed extremely young in comparison. Her naiveté he had taken for granted, but not until looking at her tiny frown, upper lip slightly overhanging her plump lower one, or the curvature of her round cheeks as her eyelashes lowered over them, did he realise that the innocence might be linked to age. For the first time in aeons, Gold was overcome with guilt. Had he just been looking up the skirt of a _minor_? He felt perverted and poured another shot, liquid splashing slightly as his hands struggled to stay steady.

"How old are you, Belle?"

She looked up, appearing taken aback at his question, "Twenty. Why?"

"You do know you are not legally allowed to work at Olympic Garden."

"Yeah," she sighed, "I don't think de Vil cared about the rules in my case."

Gold contained the urge to make a very vocal phone call, filled with obscenities. He looked instead at Belle's fingers, playing with the rim of the shot glass. "Drink, dearie. You look like you need it." To hell with the drinking age and all that.

She dipped her finger into it and brought it to her lips, sucking on the pointer and concentrating on the taste. Gold followed the finger's path in a sudden trance and only looked away when she shook her head furiously, "Nup. Still don't like it."

"You will, one day."

"It's an acquired taste apparently," she pushed the shot across the table and sat back, "You couldn't have bought something...milder?"

"Well, no fun in that, now is there?"

"I suppose," she agreed tiredly and rubbed her eyes. A moment later she seemed to remember her make up and swore softly, "I have to go freshen up."

"Freshen up?" Gold echoed with an ironic twitch of his eyebrow. It was strange to here her speak like that. Keeping her from a hasty exit with a quick hand, he said, "No need."

"Isn't it smudged?" she asked, turning her head around to peer at herself in the dully reflective black wall.

Gold looked at her face, resembling a drugged up meth head or a porn star at the tail end of her career, and grunted in disinterest, "Not at all."

Belle looked up, unconvinced, but lowered herself back down and leaned across the table with her chin in both palms. "I hate this place."

"Really? One would never have guessed," he said sarcastically, missing the creature that had shone beneath the lights. Belle closed her eyes and Gold found he could now look freely without fear of staring. It was then that he noticed her difference. It wasn't what she had, but what she was _missing_. He recalled her dancing with closed eyes and looked up at the platform. Those girls were winking at the unresponsive audience, fluttering their eyelashes and pulling faces that you'd usually only see in the throngs of pleasure. Belle had none of that. She lacked the sexuality. That was it. She wasn't sexy. At all.

And that wasn't just because he'd realised she was young enough to be his daughter.

She was sensual, yes. And soft and vulnerable. She wasn't confident in herself. She wasn't happy to be there. She danced with her eyes firmly shut, like she was keeping out the audience, and though her moves were basic and her steps small, she had swung around that pole with a magnetic energy that none could resist. That Gold couldn't resist. It had seemed special because Belle made the audience feel like they were watching a private scene. As if behind those lids was an image of a bedroom and another man. Her dance had seemed _real_. With the music slow, and her skirt shimmering, Belle hadn't looked like a stripper – she'd looked like a lover.

Gold wondered where she had conjured up such an air.

"I hate this place so much," she spoke, now gazing unseeingly through the smoke that was beginning to surround their booth. Gold blew a ring from his cigar and nodded for her to continue, knowing she probably didn't even catch the movement. "One of the girls named...I don't know her real name but she calls herself Zanthia. Well, she's here on a study visa. Law and engineering. A real smart girl. One of the customers earlier tonight took her up to VIP and asked for a dance. That's 250. He paid her in one dollar bills and made her lick them off the floor."

"Ah."

So that's what had changed between earlier this morning and now.

"I hate this place."

"Where is lovely Zanthia from?" he said, trying to keep things light.

"Somewhere Eastern-European. Like half the girls here. Russia, probably."

Gold saw that the empty look had focused and followed her eye line to a girl in a pink and green clown costume. At least he supposed the pom pom bra and stiff frilled collar represented a clown somehow. She had the desired mail-order look about her. Straight platinum blonde hair and even at this distance through the smog, he could see her eyes were painted very black with many layers of cosmetic.

"The girl has been crying."

That roused Belle slightly and she sat up, squinting one eye in a look he was quickly realising was her 'thinking very hard' expression. "Zanthia doesn't cry. She's like all the Russians. All work. No play. Tough as jerky."

"Does she usually smother her skin in that much make up? Even for a stripper she looks," he searched for an inoffensive word, "Overdone."

Belle leaned forward, as if the few inches would help her sight. "Mmm...I didn't notice that. You're good."

"From you? That's hardly a compliment," he said scornfully. She opened her mouth to ask why and he waved the question away, "You notice nothing. The homeless man who spends his entire day staring at the cement sees more than you."

Belle crossed her arms over his jacket and twisted her lips to the left side of her face, "Oh really."

"Really," he pointed with the shot glass, "Tell me what you see there."

Frowning but following his outstretched arm to one of the three men leaning on the tipping aisle, Belle lifted a shoulder and made a noncommittal sound, "Nothing. Male. Mid to late forties. A local. He likes Angel; he's been tipping her twenties."

Gold took a deep sucking breath on his cigar and blew the smoke straight into her face. She coughed and glared. He smirked, "Pathetic, my dear. In three months you will be dead, mark my words."

"Three months?"

"If you fail to lean, and fast," he looked carefully at the man he'd pointed out, "Your 'business' is not about quick fingers. It's about people. The art of the con, my dear, is all about misdirection and human psychology. If you wish to continue breathing, it would do you much good to take a few notes."

Belle opened her mouth but didn't refute him. She suddenly took the previously unwanted glass and downed it in one gulp. Gold smirked some more.

"That man. Male, yes. Which is about the only thing you got right," Gold made rings of smoke and watched them float away before he continued, at his leisure. "Not forties. Older. Sixties at least. Face says young; the state of his body says old. Look at his hands, skin is loose – like an elderly man. Tells us he has had face work done. Vain, then. And wealthy. But, no wedding ring. Narcissistic. Loves himself so much he cannot bear to share. No wife lends itself to a nomadic life. Suit is Italian, shoes are Spanish tipped. Therefore, not a local but he is American, I will give you that. Texan given the Confederate belt buckle and his accent, which I heard earlier when he called you some term of endearment during your show."

Looking more and more unconvinced, Belle finally humoured him with a smile and a nod, "Sure. And how do I know you're not making this all up?"

"You may ask him."

She looked down at her costume and the jacket on top of it. Crossing her legs, Belle huffed, "Fine. Do me."

"Pardon?"

"I said, do that that on _me_," she waggled her fingers. Gold quickly brushed aside the sound of her saying 'do me' and replied. "Profiling, Miss French. Making instant profiles of your fellow man. Useful tool. Endless source of entertainment."

"Profiling," she wrapped the word around her tongue, "Like on a database."

"Not quite," he leaned backwards as if to get a better view of her, "More personality, less facts and figures. Take you, for example, any database would say twenty years old, female, born in Australia. But, I know you've been in the States since at least you were thirteen or fourteen hearing the slight American accent on your 'r's. You are fit. Given that you would generally choose a book over a jog, there must've been some aggravating factor that has made you take on an active lifestyle. Not childhood obesity and bullying, you are far too disinterested to be affected by that, so I will say an older male presence. Father given your affinity for older men and – "

"Excuse me?"

Gold stared, not believing that he had to physically point at himself for her to understand with a little 'oh' and a bright red blush. Continuing because she didn't appear to want him to stop, he said with growing speed, "You take little notice of current trends, since a tan is the latest young fad and you have none. So you have very little regard for your personal appearance. When I met you, you had no skill with make up or heeled shoes. You think little of yourself or luxury goods which hints at a life of thrift and living from pay check to pay check. A doting father, no doubt, given that you view men without danger, despite the fact that you are in a room full of dangerous men. So why did the loving father not try to protect his daughter from his money troubles? My guess would be that he was not around to do so."

"This is..." she trailed off, closing her eyes briefly but sighed speechlessly, opening them again and nodding for him to continue. She downed another shot.

"Absent father but no bitterness, no resentment that he left you all alone for long stretches of time? Then it must have been a work thing, not a drinking problem for example. But the work must have been noble, justified, or you still would not have stood for the abandonment. My guess – government or military. Given your athleticism, let us say military. And most likely highly ranked, several notable instances of bravery, etcetera. Yet not paid his due. So a row with a superior over an ethical qualm, I would bet, and a permanent demotion about the time you must have moved from the southern hemisphere to the north."

She nodded dumbly and was about to pour herself a third glass when Gold stopped her hand with a gentle, but firm, one of his own.

"No. You never drink, which is both a statement on your father's upbringing and your own complete disregard for teenage norms, but it also means, dearie, that you will be throwing up in the toilet in two hours."

"Oh."

"Indeed," he threw her a wolfish grin and went on, gesturing to her facial features as he spoke, "Eyes say intelligent. Sharp, bright, observant. But easy smile, generously given, belies innocence and gullibility. Your choice of career hints at a longing for adventure, and you have inherited your father's courage. The pole dance told me that even before I thought about dear old daddy. A girl here to pay a debt does not teach herself to dance half naked in front of sexually deprived men unless she chases danger. So an adrenaline junkie. But how did a bookish, quiet, innocent little girl who never drinks, takes drugs or even drive over the speed limit, get a taste for the unknown?"

"Okay, for your information, I _have_ driven over the speed limit."

"Twice?" Gold queried with amusement.

Belle looked down and flushed again, "Once."

"Exactly," he finished his cigar and stubbed it into the dish, "So something forced you to be brave, the very first time. Some tragedy, something unavoidable. What else would propel an action so against your character? Money, I guess. Money troubles worse than before. The dough stopped coming in, so your father both quit his job working lowly overseas desks and refused to find another – which seems unlike the caring father – or something stopped him from doing his job. Blackmail? Sudden onslaught of Pacifist notions? Unlikely. So that leaves me with – "

"Medical," they said together.

Belle had her hands clasped, resting in her lap. She was staring at them. Gold gave her a moment and when she looked up and met his gaze, hers was free of tears.

"A stroke. We're not citizens so we have no claims to medical care and even if we were, we wouldn't be able to afford it," she said in a low, but strong voice, "I looked everywhere for work. But earning minimum wage at some fast food joint just wasn't enough to support him. I even considered coming to a place like this," she waved around, "But the money was too unsteady and you know I'm not cut out to be a stripper."

Gold waited as the silence stretched on. He hadn't spent all of his observations. There were still several more things about her that he had discovered through simply sitting and watching. But in the chronology of things, there was a gap between the stroke and her present that he couldn't quite place. From good girl Belle, a person who never stepped out of line, to someone with a pair of hands and some seriously advanced hacking skills if she'd managed to rig El Co's Keno machine, Gold couldn't get that particular picture to fit. Twisted every which way, he couldn't think of what had changed in a few short years.

"So..." he asked into the growing pause.

Belle smoothed a smile onto her face and shrugged, "So I found an alternative. Enough steady cash to pay for a live-in nurse, private medical care and one day maybe, to relocate him to a nicer part of the country – maybe somewhere nearer to the Lakes."

"Ah," Gold said, unable to resist the titbit of information, "Michigan or New York?"

"How..."

"There are eight states with a border that touches one of either Superior, Michigan, Huron, Erie or Ontario," he explained, "You said 'lakes.' Plural. And only two of those states touch more than one of the Great Lakes. New York only has a very small border with Erie, sharing most with only Ontario so we could count that as just one lake. Which means you are from Michigan."

Throwing up her hands in amazement, Belle looked to the heavens, "Impossible."

Gold waved a finger at her, "Actually it's very possible. Logical. Natural, almost. Once you learn it, you'll wonder how you ever survived without it."

"What if I can't learn? What if I just can't _do_ that?"

He laughed at her. Belle slumped her shoulders and looked offended. Her doubts had been serious. Giving those serious questions a very gleeful snigger, he nodded his head towards the stage where the dancing troupe had long packed away. "You learnt to pole dance in a couple of nights and did it better than any of the seasoned professionals. You're not lacking in capacity, my dear, only in experience."

Gold stood up and Belle jumped to her feet too, almost rolling another ankle in her haste. He stalked purposefully to one of the better lit round tables near the bar. She tottered after him, looking over her shoulder at the abandoned Johnnie Walker with a disapproving twist of her lips. Taking a seat opposite, she enquired as to why they'd changed real estate. Gold slid over to her with several bounces of the stool. Leaning in close, so that his breath was blowing against her hair, he directed her gaze towards a couple they now had a clear view of.

"Lesson one. The clothing," he murmured, voice deliciously low and silky. Belle narrowed her eyes and focused, listening to his instructions with a schoolgirl focus. Once he gave her leave to try herself, she thought long and hard about her answer.

"The man's wearing an expensive looking watch but it's not glowing under the black light..."

"So?"

She blinked at him and licked her lips, narrowing eyes in determination, "So it's fake. Either a knock off or a cheap souvenir. Probably the second because nothing else they're wearing is made to look high end. I think they're tourists, then, and she's wearing runners. They've been walking around a lot and that means no rented car, or maybe they're staying nearby?"

"Very good," he murmured, lips just hovering above her neck. He brought up an arm and directed her to a bachelor's party that had just walked in the door and were busy buying drinks. "Lesson two. The body language. Which one is the groom?"

Belle found herself leaning back and slightly into him, speaking out of the corner of her mouth. They watched the young men laugh and joke. "They're already drunk."

"That surprises you?"

She didn't reply but studied their movements carefully. The best man would be the guy ordering the drinks and hustling over the prices. That left five other men. Two weren't smiling, simply looking curiously at the floor and glancing up the stairs to peek at the VIP area. She doubted the groom wouldn't be smiling so directed her attention to the other three men. All were talking over each other, rubbing shoulders and pushing themselves about. From the meaningless gambolling, she started to detect a pattern. Two of them seemed to be taking turns teasing the third.

"That's him. The one on the right. Are his mates trying to force him into a nude dance or something?" she turned her head an inch and felt Gold's mouth accidentally press against her jaw line. They both jumped back a fraction. Staring. She cleared her throat, holding his gaze, unreadable, and then looked back at the group. "Oh no," she glanced at Gold again, "One of them wants me. It's the best man."

"My dear?"

"Look. The way his hands have gone deep into his pockets. The way he's facing me but his eyes are looking everywhere except here. He's acting casual, licking his lips. Oh no...No, no...He's walking over."

Gold growled.

A real growl as he looked at the buff figure with the gelled back hair and combat boots. So much macho to compensate for his lack of class. Didn't he know that it was bad etiquette to accost a girl already taken? Gold made to get back to his feet but Belle steadied his hand and quickly took off his jacket she was wearing, throwing it into his lap. She stood up, holding the scrap of material to her chest and then turned her back on the man. Bending over, Gold got a very good look of the man's face as he checked her out, Belle leaned in close to him and whispered, "You've taught me lots. Now let me show you a little something."

Whipping around with a sultry smile, she let the material drop, exposing her front. The entire party whispered and clapped the best man on his back, shoving him forward. Gold had his cane ready for attack. His eyes flickered between the approaching man and Belle, not sure where to look. Watching her walk forward, hips sashaying in a fashion he had never seen before, Gold took back his comment about her lack of sex. The man was practically drooling, his mouth wide open and staring at her like she was something delicious to eat. As Belle took his hand and led him over to the table, he didn't even seem to notice Gold's presence.

"What's your name, sailor?" she said, her voice rough, looking out from beneath lowered lids.

With his friends still laughing in the background, he smirked and set one elbow on the table, leaning against it and flexing the muscle in a not so subtle way. Gold wanted to poke it and see if it simply burst like a balloon. Those forearms were very similar to Popeye the Sailor's. Oh...now he understood Belle's choice of words. Yes, this salivating idiot did resemble that two dimensional cartoon character. What a compliment to him, Gold thought vindictively as his hand twitched upon the cane. He wished he had one of those sticks that concealed a knife or a gun. That would be supremely convenient.

"Richard Gaston. But you can just call me Gaston. Like James Bond, but everyone just calls him Bond."

Belle giggled at his amazing wit. To hell with a knife or a gun, Gold thought, he could just beat the guy down with the wood if need be. Seeing Belle cavort with a guy of that intellect was demeaning to everyone in a three mile radius.

"Oh, well, have I got something special for you," she leaned in to him, giving him a face full of her boobs. Gold almost he didn't see Belle wink at him and take out Gaston's wallet. About to tell her it was suicide, that even a dunce like him would notice it was gone when he made to pay her, instead, all he could think about was keeping his mouth from hanging to wide. Belle was giving Gaston lots of time to lick her breasts and reach around and grab her ass. She was moving slowly to the music and Gold only stood for the behaviour because he could see her laughing eyes as she opened his wallet and took out one of his credit cards. It was ridiculous just how skilful those fingers were. Flicking open the clasp and looking through all the pockets for a suitable card, even lifting out a ten dollar bill that he wouldn't miss. All in no more than three seconds. All with only one hand. She had no pockets, obviously, so returned the wallet to the oblivious customer and dropped the card and money into Gold's lap.

He stared down at the bounty. _Where the hell had she learnt to _do_ that?!_ Stuffing the stolen goods into his pocket, Gold knew that despite all his profiling finesse, simply recounting her life story was just the surface of Belle French. About her nature, about her desires and dreams, her fears and her failures – he knew nothing. Keep his gaze from the pair beside him, Belle's inexperienced dips and grinds as she gave him a lap dance and Gaston's growing bulge, Gold looked around the smoke filled room. There was a man who sat alone. From his hands, it was obvious he was a banker and he was cheating on his wife. There, another man, chain smoker and tried drugs in his youth. Didn't like it. Stuck with cigarettes. There, a woman. Fear of children.

Gold repeated the act all around the room. Finding out so much more about these people in a glance than all his surveillance sessions on Belle. Sure, he could figure out much about her family, her father. But what about her? Her present? It frustrated him. One moment she was conflicted and depressed, the next she was busting out her entire limited repertoire to steal from a sleazebag. That Gaston _was _a sleazebag made her actions justified but did that make them more moral? Gold mentally smacked himself. Since when did he care about moral? This was the effect of the general area. He needed to go back up to his tiger patterned couch, order Belle a cocktail and wrap his arms around her. Away from the smoke and the darkness. Away from Mr Popeye.

"You're beautiful. Can I take you home?"

Belle stroked a finger down his tented pants and only smiled. He paid the $20 for the dance and bought her a Smirnoff something. Another girl came to pour the drinks and horny Gaston got distracted by this new dish. As he flexed his muscles for the ravishing red head, Belle took the opportunity to side step him and stand before Gold. They didn't need words to communicate her need to get out as quickly as possible.

As he stood, he lifted the scrap of material and wrapped it around her chest. Hands lingering at her waist and avoiding eye contact, he felt her arm come around and hold the silk in place. Feeling her ribs beneath his palms, she seemed so small.

_She's only twenty, of course she's small._

Gold quickly led her upstairs, past the individual stalls where women gave nudes, shielded from the outside by a curtain made of semi-translucent cloth. Into the VIP room, Gold finally heaved a breath of relief. He swung his jacket back over Belle's shoulders and she seemed to release the tension in them. Here it was brightly lit, the chandeliers welcoming them inside. It wasn't a Saturday so his couch was occupied. A group of four were being entertained by two dancers. Gold stomped over and promptly dismissed them. They opened their mouths to complain to Ursula, who grew two chins as she spotted Gold and Belle, but silenced the whines of the four strong group nonetheless. If Gold wanted his usual, Gold would have his usual.

"That's rude," Belle chided, following the disgruntled guests with her eyes. "Couldn't we have sat somewhere else?"

Gold gestured around at the full room. She leaned back in resignation and extended a palm. "Gimme."

It took him a moment to realise she meant her bounty. Still not looking at him, her fingers curled around the plastic as soon as it touched her skin. She drew it to eye level and gave it a hawk-like stare. He watched her run her thumb over the ivory and cobalt metallic sheen, saw her linger over the embossed letters and numbers, little bumps coming out of the plastic like brail dots. A thought came to him. How could she use the card without Gaston's signature or pin number? But a glance at the casual smile upon her face and he realised that she must know some trick he didn't.

As he stared at her staring at the card, he asked as offhandedly as he could, "Why not return the money you stole, instead of going through this every night?"

Belle finally looked up, "I thought you spoke to de Vil."

"I did."

"She didn't tell you what I stole?" Belle seemed surprised, those teal blue eyes searching his, "I didn't take cash...if that's what you mean."

"But surely you still have the money..."

She shook her head, "No. No, I didn't make any money. I didn't fence off her jewels or steal her car or break into her safe and take bank bonds," at Gold's baffled look, she grinned vaguely, "I stole a dog."

"A _dog_."

"Mmm."

Gold closed his eyes and muttered that he must be hearing things, "A dog?"

Belle made a face, like she was afraid he'd strike her, "Yeah?"

"A dog worth $900,000," he said in the same disbelieving tone.

She sucked on her bottom lip and looked up at the ceiling, "Have you ever heard of kennel clubs?"

"Yes."

"Well," she took a deep breath, "There's this Dalmatian called Betty Lou's Kingdom of Vaenyth. She's a world champion, French champion, North American grand champion, and best of breed winner not to mention the winner of loads of best in specialty shows. She's the top Dalmatian the dog world has seen in decades and she just retired from competition. A puppy from Betty Lou's litter is worth hundreds of thousands. The prize money at these shows. Well..."

He couldn't believe his ears. Carmella de Vil was punishing a girl because she stole a dog. A champion dog, but a _dog_ nonetheless.

"So you stole Betty Lou. What did you do with her?" Gold said in a tight voice. Belle had stolen and fenced a dog. A living, breathing dog.

"What? No!" she cried, "I didn't steal the _mother_. I stole her son. And apparently the only puppy of the litter who had any potential. Mind you, I discovered all of this after de Vil grabbed me. When I saw the pup, I never meant to take him. It's just that he looked malnourished, probably only four weeks old, and stuck in this tiny metal cell away from his mummy. With no blankets, no food, no water. I had to get him out. So I did. And only afterwards did I realise his owner had secured a deal with another breeder in Italy. The puppy was to be shipped off in two days and de Vil would have been almost a million dollars richer."

"You rescued a dog worth more than most people's homes," Gold deadpanned.

Belle shrugged, "She's wasn't treating them right. Champion pedigree or no champion pedigree. I wasn't going to leave the dog there so I popped the lock and took him."

"Name?"

"Officially it's Fireman's Ruby, or so they tell me. I don't like these stuck up names," she had gone back to inspecting the back of Gaston's credit card. Muttering absentmindedly as she scratched at the surface with a finger nail, she said, "He's super hyperactive though. After I got him warm and fed, that is. Bouncing all around the motel room. Like a pogo stick. Boing. Boing. Boing. Bouncy, bouncy. Cutest thing I've ever seen..."

Gold looked askance at her and shook his head. She'd got herself stuck in the club by attempting to save an animal from the clutches of a loveless owner and a competitive, money grubbing industry. Belle was just full of surprises. He wondered where this dog was. It sounded like it was still with her. She could as easily have given the dog back and saved herself. But here she was, doing her time and selling her body over and over. All for a little dog.

"You are an interesting creature, Miss French," he said as he hailed a waitress, "Top shelf tall Harvey Wallbanger, double Tanqueray and tonic, and a Cadillac margarita with salt and lime wheel."

"I have no idea what you just ordered but that sounds like a lot of alcohol," Belle said with a worried look at the retreating back of the waitress.

"A man is paying you $1,700, the least you can do for him is to drink the beverages he buys," Gold said with a shadow of a smile.

Belle thought for a moment. "Since when were you paying me that much?"

"300 an hour for the dear lady's company in the VIP room. Five hours until the end of your shift makes 1500. As well as 100 for your thrilling stage show and another hundred for the forty minutes spent downstairs," Gold nodded and tipped the woman who placed three very different drinks in very different glasses down on the black table. He picked up the one in a tall, thin glass. "Now, for every person you profile correctly in these next five hours, I will tip you $50. And for every drink you successfully learn and drink I will pay you $100."

She took the bright yellow concoction from his hand and looked at it as if it contained human blood, "Why are you doing this?"

Gold picked up a margarita glass, rimmed with crushed salt and looking a poisonous green. "Do you want the yellow or the green?"

"You ordered all these for me..." Belle said in a horrified voice, picking up a square glass with clear iced liquid, "Is this vodka?"

"A gin and tonic. Tanqueray gin to be exact," he pointed to the yellow in her other hand, "That one is vodka. With orange juice and a float of Galliano. The green is tequila, Cointreau and Grand Marnier."

She frowned and set both her glasses down, "What happened to not wanting me to throw up?"

"Building resilience requires practice, dearie," he said slyly, "Now drink. And tell me something about that man."

She chose the gin and tonic after much consideration and took a tentative sip, "Urgh. Disgusting. Alright. That guy is thirties. Married. Some kind of car dealer?"

"Pen in shirt pocket. Very good. $50, my dear. Well earned," Gold chuckled and reclined, enjoying the conflicted looks that crossed Belle's face as she took another sip, braver this time. She would get on well. And perhaps one day she'd be able to order a drink herself. Life lessons, he thought. Selfishly, he wanted her intoxicated and laughing, enjoying his generally unpleasant company with the help of alcohol. If he had six months with her – he would damn well make use of those six months. Did it make him a manipulative bastard, taking advantage of a young girl? Hell yes. But, he thought mildly, if she really despised his actions – she would surely make her anger known through a missing wallet or two. Or perhaps, if he riled her up enough, he would wake up one morning to find his Maserati missing. Or maybe she would have a taste for one of his diamond studded wristwatches.

"Lola, can I use the pad and pen?" she called to one of the roaming waitresses. The girl passed it over and Gold tipped her to make her go away. Wondering what Belle was going to show him, he leaned over and watched, entranced and appalled, as she carefully placed Gaston's credit card on the table and the pad beside it. With only a slight hesitation, she scribbled something with a flourish and sat back, looking immensely proud of herself. "What do you think?"

Gold looked at the identical forgery of Gaston's signature. "Very," he gulped, "Impressive."

Never mind wallets, cars or jewellery. Belle could simply max out of his bank accounts. He was curious to see whether or not she could still do such feats of mind boggling criminal panache while drunk and hailed the waitress over. Tearing off the signature, he passed over the pad and ordered three more drinks, to Belle's wide mouthed dismay. Not even her genius could withstand an overload of expensive liqueurs. Surely. Hopefully.

"You suck," she crossed her arms, the gin still in her hand.

On an impulse, Gold bent over and pressed an open mouth to her bare neck. He sucked and released her with heart beating wildly. Unable to resist the quip, he grinned, hiding the wavering fear that she would jump back and scream sexual assault, "I guess I do suck."

Belle had frozen. She looked as afraid as he felt and took two huge gulps of the drink. Gold watched her, half amused, half horrified that even a little kiss had left her in need of liquor. Great. Here he was, feeling like a schoolboy, the Dalmatian puppy bouncing around his stomach while she drank the memory of his lips away. Great. He scowled. This was a mistake. She was young. She was beautiful. She was full of wonderful tricks. What was he?

"Mr Gold?" she said softly. He looked down at her tiny hand, resting on his thigh. "Did I do something wrong?"

Looking back into those wide, fearful eyes, he gathered his courage and found a grim smile. "Yes. I am afraid _that_ is not how you hold a drink," Belle relaxed with a breathy laugh and watched him take the glass and place it firmly in her other hand. "Left always. Keep your right free to work. Now, time for another profile. Do that couple over there. Tell me how long they've been married."

She looked for a long time and after almost ten minutes, turned back to him and said very slowly. "They're not married. She's his mistress of...I'll say six months."

Gold took out a fifty dollar note and dangled it in the air. She tore it from his fingers with a big smile and a lilting thank you. Then crossing her legs, Belle finished the gin, made a show of licking her lips in enjoyment and picked up the margarita with her left hand. With her right, so quick Gold didn't even see it, she held up a five dollar bill. He blinked in confusion until she waggled her eyebrows and nodded at the retreating backside of a stripper returning to the dressing rooms. In her G-string, she had tucked several notes. While striding by their couch, Belle had taken one of them, out from the girl's very skin and she had been none the wiser.

"Free to work," Belle wiggled the fingers of her right hand, "Free to wander."

Taking out another cigar, he lit it and took a long draught. "Amen."

OOO

Bee was leaning over the rails of the raised Circle Bar, looking over the casino and getting her bearings. In her left hand she held the neck of a double black and took absentminded sips from its rim. In her right, she fiddled with a burner phone, flipping the old model open and close in a compulsive twitch. Her mind was occupied. Too many things had crammed in it the last few days and she was taking the time to air it out. A highly functioning brain was like a railway system. Bee considered hers the cerebral equivalent of the London Underground. At first glance, a string of tangled tracks but after some consideration, different routes could be seen. The ancient, more than one hundred years old, and the new. Keeping all 274 stations in check was a mammoth feat but to the 2.3 million passengers that passed through each day, it all went like clockwork. Fast, punctual and clean – that was the ideal. But when the maintenance dropped, the entire network faltered and the people complained. Her synapses were the people. Her nerves were the rails. Her memories were the stations and her thoughts, coming every second and every millisecond – were the trains themselves. Recently, there had been many bumps in the tracks and everything from Heathrow to Epping was a mess. She was in due need of a spring cleaning. Or whatever it was called in December.

Winter cleaning.

In slow increments, the junk was being cleared and only the very necessary remained:

She had been called by Gold to find the mastermind behind this con because he thought that mastermind could be coerced into telling him the whereabouts of his son.

Hopper had recommended her since she was Jeff's partner and Jeff was the architect.

The big con would go down on New Year's Eve.

But she didn't have to stop it if she found Gold's son first.

Someone really didn't want her to stop the con, seeing as they had poisoned her.

There was a roulette wheel remote to find, or at least the person who controlled it.

There was Jeff to rescue from Gold's wrath.

There was a traitor inside Gold's empire.

There. Brain all clean. Things had been so difficult to figure out with all the double talk and hospital trips. Bee took a deep breath. From her vantage point, she could see about fifty percent of the casino. The bar wasn't particularly high, but it was enough to give her a good idea of where her mark was. Following him with her eyes now, she watched the man in leather take a seat at a blackjack table and begin chatting up an older woman.

The double black tasted like flat lemonade. A tinsy bit citrusy with a lot of sweet and not a lot of alcohol. She took another sip and threw the entire bottle in the bin only half finished. Taking the stairs back to the floor in leaps and wondering why she'd blown money on a drink that didn't even taste like vodka, when she could have paid less for an actual vodka, Bee quickly found her target. He was stubbled and good humoured and had that casual body language that had caused her to lower her guard the last time. Combined with a mellow voice, an unassuming sense of humour and eyes that said, 'I don't take myself too seriously', she had been well and truly duped.

"Hi," she slid into third base on the other side of August. A cocktail waitress wandered past with complimentary sugary drinks. She took one just to keep her hands busy. Once two quarters, $25 chips, were sitting neatly in her betting circle, she leaned backwards on the stool and looked across Augusts' body to the woman he was chatting up. "Hey lady. Go back to your husband. This one here isn't all he's cracked up to be."

"I'm sorry?" the lady flushed and looked over her shoulder.

"You're married," Bee stated, "He wouldn't be flirting with you unless you weren't. A bit of advice, don't cheat. I'm sure that the drinking problem will clear up as soon as hubby gets that promotion at work."

"How did you – "

"Scram woman," Bee lost most of her patience and was glad to see the back of her head.

August looked at his cards. "Hit me," he tapped the felt and grinned at the dealer before speaking to Bee out of the side of his mouth, "Did your husband buy you that dress as well?"

"Split. Hit both. I'll stay, thank you," Bee gave her own smile to the dealer and replied, "You know damn well I'm not married."

"You lied?" August sounded hurt. "I'm bust. Twenty-three."

"Don't sound so surprised. You must have known I was single through your profile," Bee flipped her cards face up. She had split her double eights into two separate hands and bet on both. "Eighteen in that hand. Nineteen in this one."

"Profile? I don't understand Miss Gallium."

"I'm sorry I don't know your last name," Bee said casually, collecting the winnings on her nineteen hand and taking a sip of the cocktail. "This of course, tells me I never gave you mine. You see, August, it's all about psychology. When you say, 'I'm from Canada', someone you've just met will say, 'Oh, I'm from France.' If you say, 'I'm from Toronto', they will say 'I'm from Paris.' Do you understand? Yes. Thank you. I'll make an insurance bet. A quarter."

"Me too," August also threw a chip onto the strip of felt labelled 'PAYS 2 to 1 INSURANCE BET.'

"When you give a country, they give a country. When you give a city, they give a city. No one ever says, 'Hi I'm from Iowa' and the stranger says 'Oh that's interesting, I'm from Hicksville, Frankfurt, Kentucky.' You subconsciously give the same amount of information as each other," Bee tapped the felt, "Hit me. Hit me again. So, August, seeing as I only know your first name, we must have introduced as 'August' and 'Isabelle.' Based on ingrained psychology, I would never have introduced myself as 'Isabelle Gallium' when you only said 'August.' It's counterintuitive to provide more personal information than your opponent. It's an evolutionary protective method. One man reveals a stone axe, the other will pick up his stone axe too – not give away the fact that he has a copper blade stuck in his shoe as well. He'll reveal the knife when the time comes and take the enemy by surprise. Same with introductions. So, sir, I have to ask – if I didn't give you my last name – how you knew it?"

"I double down," August said, unworried, "Well Isabelle, you make a great speech but human nature isn't a science."

"Well Pinocchio, how about patterns?"

"Patterns? I have a twenty."

"Seventeen," Bee said and watched the dealer flip over her nineteen. "People look at patterns all wrong. They look at what's there instead of what isn't. It's when someone _deviates_ from a pattern that valuable information can be found. Take for example, yourself. I have heard from a reliable source that you live downtown and pick up wealthy married women. Now, given your lady friend I've scared away, I can see that is true. But I am neither wealthy nor married. Before you interrupt, let's just say that you were misled by the expensive Chanel coat and dress and because I lied about having a husband. Even so, I don't look the part. You don't target _young_ married women, do you August? You pick on the older ones. Well seasoned. MILF's, I think is the crude word. I'm not old enough to be a usual mark and I don't have that stench of desperation. So why me? There was something special about me."

"You are a very special lady, Isabelle," he drawled, "Your beauty is unparalleled."

"I think you were a better liar the last time," she said scathingly, "I wasn't a target of your sexual and monetary exploits. I was a target of a con. How much did they pay you to deviate from your usual patterns and distract me while they set up the rigged roulette wheel? Hit me. I'll stay."

"Split. Hit this one. Double down that. Yes, hit that. I'll stay both," August finally looked at her. Their eyes met in one electric moment and she saw her mistake right way. "You have a wild imagination, Isabelle."

"They didn't...pay you," she said slowly, "That was an error on my part. I thought they paid you as a temporary employee. But you're one of them, aren't you? This whole pick up artist deal is just a cover. How long have you been working on it? Months? In casinos all around Vegas? That's very dedicated. A good cover takes some patience."

He smiled thinly, took the cocktail from her fingers and drank from it. "Mmm...sweet on the surface with a bitter aftertaste. Just like you."

"You were more flattering last time too."

"Do I give you an award? Do I say, well done and put a sticker on your notebook?" he said, dripping with sarcasm now and finishing her drinking with smacking lips. "Am I gonna join my companions in the emergency room?"

Bee abruptly stood and marched away. She felt him follow her and chose a place at the colourful west slots. After a few seconds, he deposited himself into the seat beside her and began to play a game of his own.

"I have a proposition," she said softly, letting the ringing of the machines all around them keep their conversation from prying ears. August had to lean in towards her to catch her words. "I can keep Gold off your back if you'll give me three wishes."

"Three?"

"Your life is priceless," Bee pulled the lever and watched herself spin two diamonds and a tomato. "Three favours is me being very kind."

"How can I trust you won't tell Gold anyway?"

Bee swivelled until she was facing August and put her elbows on her knees. "If I were you? I wouldn't. But you don't have a choice. One word from me and you're a dead man."

"I think your famous compassion has been overrated."

She continued to stare at him with that calm, disinterested facade. "Do we have an agreement?"

August fiddled with his leather jacket and looked around. Finally, he nodded. Bee grinned and took one of his hands, her fingers placed lightly against his pulse point. "Good. Wish number one. Give me the roulette remote. Wish number two. Get me a private conversation with Jeff. Wish number three. Find the whereabouts of Gold's son."

She felt his heart beat flutter but not enough to indicate he wouldn't keep his word. August withdrew his wrist from her fingers with an ugly expression on his face. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small plastic box with a keypad upon it. Passing it to her, he growled, "I didn't even know Gold had a son."

"Then ask around," she retorted. "And Jeff?"

August licked his lips and closed his eyes, "Fine. We'll hold fire. He's in Privé. You have fifteen minutes."

Bee straightened and tucked away the remote. "Pleasure doing business with you August."

OOO

* * *

**Got distracted halfway through this chap by season premiere! I'm so happy for all the rumbelle angst (if you haven't figured out, I LOVE ANGST)! *squee*  
**


	8. Keyed Into The Stakes

***cowers behind Rumple* I know it's been forever and I've been a horrible writer D: If anyone is still following this story...I beg you, please don't shoot!**

**For anyone who needs the reminder:  
**_Bee was poisoned with thallium, recovered in hospital, befriended Leroy in a quid pro quo deal to save Astrid from a fate that is at present, unknown. In return, Leroy helped Bee free the three con artists (Dr Whale, Fredrick and Abigail) who she suspected Gold was torturing for information. She was right. In shock and still weak, Bee staggered to her room in The Flamingo only to find she'd forgotten her door key. Gold opens her room for her and, in an act of great surprise to exhausted Bee, sedates her and puts her to bed. When she wakes, she finds a letter from him, explaining that the whole 'help me find who's robbing my casino' was all a ruse to get her to round up Vegas criminals to 'question' them about the whereabouts of his long lost son. If Bee can find the son, she will be free to go. Bee figures out August is in on the con and makes him a deal - if he lets her talk to Jeff and fetches the son for her, she won't sell him out to Gold. August tells her she has fifteen minutes with Jeff in Club Privé.  
_

_Meanwhile in flashback land: Gold and Bee have reached a weird understanding. Bee's discovered that he owns The Bellagio. It's mid-April 2005. He watches her dance almost every night and they play a strange game of 'reading people' while improving Bee's tolerance to alcohol. He's begun to teach her some of his own tricks and she abruptly opens up to him about the reason she's trapped working in The Gentlemens Club, paying off mob master Carmella de Vil's debt. She tells Gold she stole the pup of her prize Dalmatian, worth $1 million.  
_

* * *

Club Privé, how predictable. She wove her way through the crowds, coming up to the room of mirrors and glass, and braced herself. Breathing deeply, her mind strangely blank, Bee took the few gold steps at a leap. The muted bustle of the lounge embraced her instantly. Olive carpets and mustard velvet cushions on dark leather couches matched the low timber roof. The place felt almost cosy. A bar glittered in the corner, back lighted, its crystal decanters glowing. Jeff was sitting by a shade of palm fronds, his Swiss rye vodka in hand, staring at some lilies displayed in a red lacquered oriental vase.

She was expected.

"Bee."

Her eyes filled with tears at the sound of her name. He looked up at where she'd stop, several paces away from him, her face crumpling. Jeff opened his arms and with that invitation, she rushed to his side, eager to be wrapped up in his warmth. He gripped her equally hard, whispering that he was sorry, over and over again. She buried herself into his neck. He smelled like Sir Jefferson: Kenneth Cole cologne, drug store hair spray, women's make up, rose water hand cream, Rocky Patel cigars and of course, vodka. But beneath all of the costuming, there was that stench of dressmaking glue he used for all his top hats and the unique smell that reminded her of home.

"Bee, I'm so sorry, it was never supposed to end up like this," Jeff pressed his forehead against hers, eyes as wet as hers, "They wanted to...they wanted..."

"The thallium?"

He had his face pressed into her hair. His voice came out muffled, "I knew it was a poison you'd recognise. They wanted sodium cyanide but you'd never had experience with it and...and I knew you wouldn't survive if they gave you that...so I suggested thallium."

She laughed through watery eyes. Jeff had saved her life by giving her the thallium. What cruel irony. "The blue – "

"Blue nails!" he was laughing too. "You don't have to forgive me. Ever. Bee, I'm -"

Bee ran her fingers over the curve of his ear, pulling him closer until they were cheek to wet cheek. "It's okay...I love – "

"I love you too..."

She cleared her throat and sat them both down, smiling despite the tightness in her chest. "It's okay now. _I'm_ okay now. You were right. I did remember," she looked into his eyes, then rolled her own, "I _know_. Montenegro. When Dittman Mikkelsen tried to kill you after the Andrijevica heist. I remember. Your blue nails. How could I forget?...Thank you. Thank you for giving me my best chance."

Jeff nodded and grabbed both her hands in his own, "You have to go. Now. You're in so much danger."

"So it was you?" she asked, "The person who wrote the message on my mirror?"

"What?"

"The message. 'Get Out While You Still Can'?"

"No...I didn't write that..." he frowned, "Bee. Listen to me. We don't have much time. Please, please, go. We never expected you to actually _agree_ to the meeting with Gold. I thought you'd leave the country."

"You told Gold after our cons? You paid us out?!" she cried, ripping her hands away from his. "_Jeff_!"

"I'm sorry, but I thought it was the only way to get you to go. Rule number one, remember? Always run!" Jeff looked forlorn. "I swore you'd be out of the picture but suddenly Hook tells me you're working _for_ Gold. Bee, why are you – "

"_Hook._"

He stopped, confused, "He told me he spoke to you. In ER."

Bee put her hands in her head, kicking herself for not realising. "He wasn't a hallucination..."

"You thought he was a hallucination?" Jeff giggled and mussed up her hair. "He'll love that."

"I had just been poisoned, thanks," she said, exasperated, "So _he's_ behind this."

"He came to me with a project, after he heard we were back in Vegas," Jeff looked at her like a lost puppy, begging her with his eyes to understand him, "He said that I was the best architect he knew. And that he could finally get the judge to sign over custody of Grace."

"Oh Jeff..." Bee backed away as far as she could on the little couch. He had got that crazed look in his eye. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and tried to scrape away the pitying expression she knew was upon it. Of course this was about Grace. Whenever Jeff was impulsive it was always about his daughter.

"Don't Bee. I know what you'll say. That Alice is her mother. That she needs to stay in one place to go to school. That it's safer for her," Jeff clasped his hands up before him, as if praying for her understanding. "But Gracie hates her. Now that Alice's married and has two kids with this new guy, Grace is always second best. She doesn't _love_ her. And Alice doesn't have a steady job – "

"And you do?" Bee cried, "Jeff, you honestly can't think you can tow around a kid?! I love you. I love Grace. But this...this isn't right. What is Hook promising? To blackmail the judge? To bribe him?"

"I want my daughter," he was serious, steely serious and at the point where nothing she could say would bring him back. "I'm the only real parent she's got. And finally there's a way of getting her away from Florida. She doesn't even like it there!"

"What about school, and her friends? Are you going to bring her on our cons? Jeff, you haven't thought this through."

"I have," he grasped her hands again, tugging her to him, "I have. Bee, I get to see her once a year. And I see how miserable she is. Alice won't even let me write to Grace, or call her, or email her because I'm some sort of bad example!"

"Jeff," Bee cupped his chin in hers, "You are a terrible example, love. Our life, it's not meant for – "

"I'm out."

"What?"

"After this..." he put his palms on either side of her face and gave her a kiss, "I didn't want to tell you like this...It's my last one. With the money from this heist and everything else we've made over the years, I'm set. After this one, I'm out."

Bee felt like she was about to cry again, "_What_?"

"After I have Grace and with the money," he spoke slowly, solemnly, "We can start a new life together. Somewhere far away where she can make new friends and go to school and have a house, and a room of her own."

He wiped away her trickling tears with his thumbs. She sniffed, just keeping from sobbing. "How much?"

"Thirty million."

Before she could scream in shock and amazement, he put a hand over her mouth and muffled her cries. Bee licked his hand to get him to release her. He flashed a shadow of his former joviality in a crooked smile and a wink. She kept her voice hushed. "Thirty million?"

"Each."

"_Each_!"

"Shh!"

"How are you going to get that much money? Are you breaking into the vault? That's not like you," she looked appalled.

"I can't say," Jeff said, looking truly sorry, "Look Bee, you have to go."

"Oh right," she patted down her skirt, "My fifteen minutes is up."

He stood up with her. "That's not what I meant. You have to leave. All of this. Bee...it's dangerous and...and I can't...I can't have you ruining this operation."

It hurt her to hear Jeff speaking like that. Knowing they were on different sides made her sick. She put her hands on his shoulders but could think of nothing to say. She would leave as soon as she heard back from August, the local correspondent, about Gold's son. She would let them pull off their heist and run away with their thirty million apiece. And then what? She would never see Jeff again?

"No, don't cry. Please don't cry, Bee...I hate seeing you upset."

"You're leaving me. Of course I'll be upset."

Jeff pulled her to him and they stood there, rocking side to side. Since the very start, he'd told her he was only in the business to help his daughter. With Alice holding tightly on to Grace's leash and forbidding any monetary support or contact, with a judge's signature to the deed, he'd been forced to find other ways to reach out to his little girl. It started with setting up different trust funds. Heist money went straight into those accounts so that when she turned eighteen, they would be at her disposal. Then it became more direct. Hacking into security cameras to get a glimpse of her, paying off her teachers to see how she was going at school, sending her surprise birthday gifts that didn't appear like birthday gifts at all.

When Grace turned eight, Bee and Jeff had been in Russia – watching through a live feed as spontaneous fireworks went off in all her favourite colours. Pink, purple, light blue and gold. She was at a fancy restaurant with Alice's parents, overlooking Key Biscayne. From the little boats on the water, huge shooting stars, twizzlers, sparklers and explosions in the shape of hearts and diamonds and stars burst into the night sky. It was a celebration and all the diners and beach goers stopped to gasp. Grace was delighted, even if she hadn't known it had been for her.

In the brightness and splendour of the fireworks, no one bothered to look at the boats that the fireworks shot from. On the dark of the water, thirty four vessels spelt out 'GRACE.' The whole display had taken six months to prepare and cost upwards of five million Euros. And the birthday girl hadn't even realised it was a present from the father she saw only once a year. Jeff had wept in their St Petersburg hotel room and Bee had ordered lots and lots of champagne. He'd never lied to her about his motives. He'd always said that their business was about making a solid enough earning to never need to work again and to find a contact in the underworld, who could bend the legal system to return him to his daughter. When that day came, he would be out. He'd never lied. Yet Bee still felt like he was betraying her. Knowing he was leaving hurt more than knowing he'd kept the Bellagio heist from her, or thinking she was a liability, or putting poison down her throat.

"Take care of yourself," she said sadly.

"I..."

She shook her head. He understood. No more words. No words in the world could numb the hurt. The tears were drying now. She needed to leave before they returned. She wasn't generally a weepy person. The last few days had been out of character. She hoped it wouldn't become a habit.

To business.

August was dealing with Gold's son and she had got her explanation from Jeff. Hook was the puppeteer of this whole charade – which was strange because he almost never went out into the field and he certainly didn't get his hands dirty with casinos and the like. If Neverland kids were involved, that would explain why she hadn't heard of them before. If these were newbies who usually hid behind computer screens, who hadn't been tested on a world stage, of course they would fly under her radar. It also meant there would be serious hacking involved. The roulette wheel was just one taste of the kind of technology they could use. Other things would also be vulnerable. The eye in the sky system, for one.

But all of that didn't matter. If August delivered and the estranged son returned, Bee would be out of here. And with all she knew of Jeff, she couldn't sabotage his best chance at getting everything he wanted. No matter how much it pained her, she couldn't be selfish. Not in this moment. Not now.

Yes, Bee thought as she ran up to the Circle Bar and ordered something strong. If the son returned – everyone would be happy. This was Hook's Rabbit. He'd offered Jeff his heart's desire. It then stood to reason that he'd offered August his heart's desire, and so on. Everyone working this con was getting something big in return. Someone of that team wanted it so much that they were willing to kill her to get it. And Hook had let them try. So much for 'old time's sake'. He'd sacrificed her like a lamb, Bee thought bitterly.

She wondered what stake he had in this thing.

Sipping on a brandy, and too engrossed in her own thoughts to notice the woman until she was almost beside her, Bee only just kept from jumping in surprise. The surprise quickly turned to horror. Eyeing the mink fur coat, the hollow cheeks, towering height and puffing smoke, Bee groaned. Of all the people she desperately did not want to see...

"Hello Belle French. Fearless little kitty, my, aren't you all grown up."

The woman smiled wickedly and shook the coat off, revealing thin, angular shoulders. As sharp as her cheekbones.

"Carmella de Vil, what a pleasant surprise," Bee said dully, biting back obscenities.

"All mine," she simpered and clicked her fingers for a drink. "Now, let's skip these little pleasantries shall we? A little birdie told me you're looking for Gold von Furstenberg's long lost son."

Oh, of course, de Vil would know everyone in this city. Of course August would bring her. Bastard. She should have guessed. "You can find him?"

"I ask only one thing in return," she said with a puff of that hideous zucchini coloured smoke.

Bee knew where this was going and sat back with a perfectly disinterested look while her insides screamed. "What can I do for you?"

"I want what you took from me."

"The dog?" she bluffed, feigning ignorance.

She snorted, "Breeding prize Dalmatians is only a little hobby. What I want is far more precious. You know very well what I'm talking about, kitty."

Bee forced a strained silence between them, refusing to budge her lips.

De Vil's face contorted in fury, with a splash of greed, a dash of anxiety. "Give me the _key_ and you will have little Gold Jr on a platter."

"I don't want him on platter, I want him alive," she deadpanned, folding her arms.

De Vil waved a careless hand, "Details...details. Now, do you have it or not?"

Bee stared at her. Now wondering if _she_ was bluffing. Surely she knew that it...oh...The key? The key that Bee had lost seven years ago?

"What if I don't want to return it?" she lied through her teeth, "I can just find someone else who knows where – "

The woman cackled, "Good luck with that, kit. One word from me and he'll just," she clicked her fingers in Bee's face. She didn't flinch. "Disappear...in a puff of," she blew that foul cigar in her direction with a snigger, "smoke."

Bee continued to stare at de Vil, deluding herself into thinking a few solid gazes and the lady would just back down. Instead, she shimmied on her coat, running her hands over it, and flashed her teeth, "You do _have_ the key, don't you?"

Putting the woman's leering smile to memory for later recall, Bee smiled softly and blinked, "Of course."

"Then you have a week to get it to me before your boy vanishes again," the woman spoke around the custom cigarette holder. "How about until New Years?"

She watched her take out her cigarette and dunk it in Bee's drink. The end fizzled and turned the Tanqueray and tonic a vile grey. Through gritted teeth she looked up at the loathsome woman and said, "That would be fantastic."

"Mmm...that's my pretty little kitty," de Vil waggled her fingers in farewell and flounced away. Bee watched her go with a mixture of dread and relief. That she could finally breathe relatively fresh air (she never thought she'd describe casino air as fresh) was a source of great reprieve. But she pictured the last time she had seen de Vil's key and felt her stomach drop.

"Ah, crap."

OOO

Bee had left intimidated behind about ten minutes ago.

The Strip was so _bright_.

There were so many _people_.

Although, she thought with an attempt at rationality, that may have been because it was The Wynn's grand opening night (day). One of Mrs Lee's bear claws in her mouth, chewing with a manic rhythm that matched her heart, Bee was caught by how insignificant she felt. She'd much rather have been back in the groggy interiors of El Cortez, with all it's weird and wonderful clientele, drunk and smoky and full of low odds and small change. With barely a foot in the glittering lobby, she already sensed that this was something out of her league.

They had trees indoors, for God's sake.

Fairy lights made their trunks sparkle, their canopies arching over the kind of walkway she had only ever seen in wedding magazines at the dentist's. Giant displays of roses hung in spherical balls, the round shapes made up of violet or pale pink or sunset coloured rosettes. And through the green, remarkably bright almost as if the foliage was plastic, you could see the glass roof of the atrium. Made to look industrial with the criss-crossing beams painted mint, it seemed like they were in a greenhouse, minus the humidity.

The place was an air conditioned haven. Cool and breezy even as the day began to heat up with the familiar dry of the desert. She could smell all the scents of the garden. Interspersed between the blooms nestled in ankle-height flower beds, were the spade-shaped leaves of philodendrons, wafting a pineapple whiff around the place. Through the normal odours found in a hotel early in the morning (drink, smoke, old cologne and aftershave), you could still sniff something like calla lilies, something like wet paint and something like aloe vera and butterscotch. Royal blues, bright yellows and lime greens created large cartoon floral shapes upon the mosaic floor, like the set of a children's TV show.

It was all very overwhelming.

The hotel had opened at midnight, 00:00, as planned. Bee expected there had been a speech of some sort, perhaps a small jazz band to serenade the crowds inside the bronze tower, arched inwards in a concave curve, like a wry smile, or the twirl of an eyelash. Now, there was a steady stream of people strolling around. Each had a small bubble of personal space and no luxury for any more. With everyone clearing out of the clubs and casinos to gaze at the sculpted quality of the white washed roofs or the art deco lights, there was hardly enough room to step.

Someone muttered something rude under their breath as they shouldered Bee forward. She watched the bob of brown hair walk away with a scowl but began to put foot after foot nonetheless. Wrapping her arms around her chest, she kept away from the centre of the atrium. But even hugging the wall, there were honeycomb enamel chandeliers, and pink butterflies, giant and with glass cut so fine they resembled Christmas candy, to brighten up any possible shadows in corners.

At a space further down, a small audience gathered to stare at one object. Framed by peach coloured curtains, drawn aside with tassels as one would a stage show, there were two candle brackets. They glowed bright against the burgundy wall, one on either side of a giant square painting. The stream of pedestrians adjusted their trajectory around the group much like a school of fish.

Walking awkwardly in front of the critics and bemoaning that her dress seemed to camouflage with those tasselled curtains, Bee squeezed back into the crowd. Surrounded by lots of jeans and men with baggy eyes, she let the current take her to a place she vaguely registered was the casino floor. But it was not like anything she had seen before. It was as much a casino as the Gentlemens Club stage was a classical theatre. She thought, with the glass (or was it ice?) peacocks on their daises by the entrance and the oriental themed rugs in wine red, that if the place wasn't so intimidating, she might actually find herself enjoying the decor.

Bee felt herself swept up in the throngs and was walking across the floor before she even realised what she was doing. Technically, she needed to be a year older to do so, but her comforting blanket of anonymity prevented her from feeling any alarm at her dangerous lack of a nom de plume. It was odd – being in a casino without any ulterior motives. Actually walking across the floor as herself, what a novelty.

She indulged a small smile. And finally unwrapped protective arms from their perch around her body.

Jeff had given her googly eyes when she'd told him she needed to go out and get a fancy dress. But she hadn't splurged. Much. (Well to be fair, this was Mr Bellagio's hotel and even thinking of her sloppy dress code so far in their acquaintance – or lack thereof – made her blush. The man had to have standards. That he hadn't enforced them on her was a luxury that couldn't last forever. She could at least do him the courtesy of showing up presentable to his new hotel opening). It fell past her knees and was tailored in some sort of thick cotton material that didn't crinkle easily and reminded her of the type of icing used to make flowers on cakes.

The low back with its thick straps that crossed over her shoulder blades left her exposed flesh tingling. She'd exited their hotel room with her hair done up in her equivalent of a sophisticated up do, which was really just a neat high ponytail, but had since let down her locks to hide her bare neck and clavicle. The hair band was wrapped snugly around her right wrist and now she fiddled with it, rolling it up and down her lower arm and hand. She knew her eyes must be huge. She wondered if she looked as young as she felt. Here amongst the older men and couples and groups of mid-to-late twenty year-olds who were still awake at this time of night (day).

Bee's fingers itched as she passed the blackjack pits. Jeff had painstakingly taught her a new sleight of hand. It was all and good to do it over and over in the bathroom mirror, but the real test would be pulling it off in front of a professional croupier. The temptation inched its way through her chest, excruciating in its torment. She squirmed, pulling back the hair band and flicking it painfully against her wrist. Was there any way to stop an adrenaline rush once it started?

_Just a few games._

A wry grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Knowing any attempt to contain it would be futile, all she could do was try and keep it from looking too predatory. Amazement at her surroundings, that was the expression she settled on. It wasn't difficult to fake, as she broke off from the main group and began to walk between the new tables. Not everyday did someone find herself walking under _that_ kind of ceiling. Yes, amazement was easy. Eyes caught between the opulence above and the shiver-inducing new felt on the tables, Bee's smile avoided looking to similar to that of a hunting hawk's.

_This_ was what Jeff had meant by their 'big break.' Not the small game at the Downtown casinos, but this extravagance, this whimsy made for the tourists and the affluent. What a thrill to be running the pads of her fingers down these tables – unused, most of them.

Big casinos meant even bigger security systems. State of the art. She almost giggled. The anticipation of the challenge was pumping some invigorating toxin, some poisonous drug as addicting as anything illicit, through her trembling body. Adrenaline should be illegal. It could make people do such stupid things.

Was stealing from the Wynn on its opening night (morning) stupid? Most probably. But hey, she had an in with the owner.

Her thoughts quickly spiralled out of control. The smile fading ever so slightly. _Did_ she have an 'in' with Gold von Whatsits? Bee blinked away the unwelcome thought. Thoughts that were getting too serious for this crystal and Perspex palace.

"Would you like to play ma'am?"

Bee pretended to be young and inexperienced. The dealer explained the rules kindly, if a little hurried. Feigning incompetence, she swiftly let herself lose a fair amount of money before using Jeff's new trick on the pretty clay chips before her. Fifteen dollars turned into fifty in the blink of an eye and she hid a smile with her hair. The dealer hadn't noticed and congratulated her on her luck. Hallelujah. Hours of practice had paid off. Literally.

She pulled one hundred dollars worth of winnings towards her, faking shock and surprise. "Beginner's luck," she shrugged happily, laughing a little too high-pitched to be normal. Hmmm, she'd have to work on her tells. It wasn't a good look to be laughing triumphantly in the face of Mr Bellagio.

"_Are_ you a beginner Miss French?"

As if on cue, spindly fingers gently brushed aside her hair and blew a stream of hot air against her ear. Bee inhaled and blinked innocently back at him. He was flanked by two suited men whose eyes were unreadable behind reflective sunglasses.

"You bought backup," she said lightly, sweeping an eye over his claret coloured silk suit, one button straining over a lean chest. Said lean chest was sporting an electric blue polo shirt, matching a patterned handkerchief folded elegantly in his lapel pocket. She twitched an eyebrow at his bizarre mix of formal and relaxed.

Waving a blasé hand at his men, they retreated several steps, expressions still sufficiently severe to be drawing some wary glances from the main crowd. Some were actually stopping to watch.

"Oh goodie, it seems I'm tonight's entertainment," she bit her lip and slowly rose to a stand.

Gold pressed his mouth into a tight line, muttering at a volume meant only for her ears, "Perhaps I should have asked the interior designer to accessorise the casino floor with a stripper pole."

Bee folded her features into one matching his seriousness. "Deplorable oversight."

With a light touch at the small of her back, feeling his fingers brush upon her flesh, he began to lead her deeper into the casino, still murmuring, "I will be sure to oversee its construction personally. We will have you twirling in the limelight yet, my dear."

"I'll hold you to that," Bee sucked the inside of her cheek, chin high.

"This way."

She found herself steered to the left, exiting through a pair of doors with the heat of Gold's palm spreading its warmth through the rest of her. It might have been her imagination, but the world suddenly seemed smaller. More intense. As if in agreement with her thoughts, the lighting of the hotel dimmed. She looked up.

Bee gasped. "Forget the pole. I would gladly swing from those in nothing but a feathered negligee."

"Negligee?" he said with twinkling eyes, "Were you born in the nineteenth century?"

Too entranced to smack him, she continued to look up at the ceiling decor and only smiled wider. "I was trying to be classy."

And classy was the beginning and the end of the ridiculous things hanging off the ceiling. Parasols swung by their handles like eccentric upside down lampshades. Their shapes varied, from the circular umbrella brimmed to those like Kurdish spires. Sienna. Amaranth. Bright coral. Brighter emerald. Some were rectangular, like Chinese lanterns, others like patterned Russian domes, some were tasselled and Arabian, others full of warm bronze tones found on Ottoman swords, their metallic buckles and golden buttons echoing something of Classical Greece. Lots of lilac and black, quartz grey lace and ivory embroidery made some seem like they belonged on the Silk Road.

Like an Istanbul bazaar, but wrong way up. Like midnight markets in Nuremburg or Vienna, covered in snow and moonlight with the smell of hot chocolate and cream puffs.

From invisible speakers came the tinkle of bells. And was that eerie plucking some stringed instrument? She'd read of places like these in books, the sounds of the dulcimer, a boy's chapel choir – angel voices that permeated the bustle of the hotel and made it disappear for a few seconds. The soft trickle of a water wall, liquid flowing like mercury over river stones. Two curved escalators like a grand staircase in a French chateau invited her down to a lower level.

Mouth agape, she stepped onto one of them and let it carry her, the parasol ceiling rising higher and higher above her as she sank down the giant vestibule. Walking through to an outdoor pool area, bathed in the dawn, she glimpsed the rolling hills of a golf course. In the middle of the city.

"Gold..."

He was looking at her.

No, scrutinising. Inspecting. Taking judgement from.

She squirmed, the sentence drifting off at the sight of that calm, cold expression of detachment. Behind closed off eyes, she could imagine his mind was whirling. What was he thinking about...?

"It's lovely," she offered in a small voice.

The cloudiness cleared and he nodded once, as if satisfying a mild curiosity. Bee placed a hand on his shoulder, eyes narrowed in what she hoped was a knowing fashion.

"Oh, don't look so disinterested. You're _happy_ I like it."

He looked askance at her but only stuck that crooked nose of his further into the air. _Oh..._Her hand snaked its way around his shoulders and she pressed her face up to his neck.

"You were _worried_ I wouldn't," she placed a soft kiss on the flesh beneath his ear and felt him shudder, then stiffen, turning his face an inch in her direction.

"Stop looking so pleased with yourself, Miss French," he hissed, but drew her gently into his side. After a beat, he whispered, "Thank you for coming."

"You see me at work all the time," she gazed around at what could only be described as water and marble and space. Lots of space. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine she was upon a mountaintop somewhere, away from civilisation. Away from people and their problems. "It's only fair I visited yours."

Her comment came out dreamier than she'd planned and she cleared her throat, forcing some measure of control back into her head. Gold must think that she was such a naive idiot, frightened by extravagance and reduced to mumbles by a little (big) pool.

Gold placed her on a deck chair and, just to tell him she resented being 'placed' anywhere, she relocated to a hammock beneath a cabana. With a hand in his pocket, leaning casually against his cane and surveying her contrariness with a twitching cheek, Gold stood in the shadows of the cabana curtains. She rolled her eyes and reclined, gesturing at the equivalent bed beside her.

At his hesitation, she blinked her eyes shut and chuckled, "You're costing me a night of pay. The least you could do is sit where I want to sit."

When she failed to feel him move, she cracked open an eye, "Oh come on. You'll get to manipulate however many million people come through these doors every day from now until oblivion. Get them to buy your stuff and gamble on your floor and sleep in your beds. Would it kill you to not be in control of everything, just this once?"

He watched and stood over her awkwardly, cane between his legs. She turned her head and continued to look at him through one eye, an arm thrown over her forehead.

"You're like a fish."

"Are you implying I go well with garlic and chives?"

"This is your hotel. You own it. All of this. And you look...uncomfortable. As if this is all new."

"It is all new. It has only been open for four hours."

"That's not what I mean," she squinted her one eye and struggled to explain. "You're rich. You're richer than rich."

He pursed his lips. "True. But I had hoped our lessons together had taught you more than that."

"Lessons? Is that what you're calling it?" she laughed, a hollow sound, disliking this sudden coolness in his demeanour. All because she'd refused to sit where he'd wanted her to. "Teaching the kid from the wrong side of the tracks? The one who's so stupid, so in _need_ of your direction, because she obviously can't take care of herself. What was it again? 'If I didn't learn your tricks, I'd be dead in three months?'"

Her questions, or accusations, remained unanswered. She could see that the moment her voice had started to harden, Gold had closed himself off. He got to his feet as she lifted herself on her elbows. Muttering something about enjoying her time, that there were promotional offers in one of the restaurants, he left. She listened to the sound of the cane until it was lost in the roar of an aeroplane engine above them.

This was Gold through and through. He was like loaded dice. You had to throw it in a very particular way to hit the numbers. A lazy wrist, a mistimed tumble and the throw would be useless. Bee stood up with a sigh. A month of increasing her alcohol absorption capacity through Gold's ridiculous people-reading betting game, and filling their stomachs with kolache and doughnuts in the wee hours of the morning, had taught her nothing about his ways. She'd yet to turn how to flick her fingers to get him to roll sixes. Every other move she made was a misstep.

It was unbearable.

Made even more unbearable because she knew, _knew_, that he wanted something more from her than a diversion every night. She was more than a bit of flesh and some conversation. She wanted a friendship. Or maybe, if not friends, at least a companion of some sort. And he did too. He had to. He was a busy man – who knew how busy with the new opening and all the general running of his businesses. Yet he visited her almost every night. He –

"Kitty."

She inhaled to speak and began gagging. A tall woman simpered in her direction, flanked by two European men.

"De Vil," she coughed, waving a hand in front of her face to dispel the smoke.

"Reconsidered our agreement yet, little girl?" she blew another ring in her direction. Bee wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing her eyes water from the sting and turned her face away.

"No."

"Pity. Betty Lou misses her son."

"You're missing your money, you mean."

"So young, so jaded," she said in a sing-song. "And anyhow, you're working back that money at my club. Or...you could just return the dog you have in that little dingy motel room of yours."

"No."

De Vil cackled and drew her cashmere trench closer around her, the cartilage in her neck sticking out like fins. "Stubborn too. Draw in your claws, kit. I own this town. You're just another one of my puppets. You should return the creature and be done with it. Why put yourself through all of this for...what's the word? Ah, _principle_. That is why you're doing all this, right dear? Principle?"

"You were starving the dog."

"And you were trespassing on my estate."

"I was lost."

"You were _spying_," de Vil lifted a corner on her lip into a vicious sneer and sticking her face forward until they were practically sharing the same breathing air, "Let's move pass this nonsense about the dog. Why were you really poking around on my land, Annabelle Francis?"

Bee responded to her ugly look with a beaming one of her own, making sure to make her face as radiant as possible. "My employer."

De Vil pulled back with a flick of her hair and she dismissed her bodyguards with a jerk of her wrist, the cigarette holder balanced between middle and fore finger. Once they were well back and out of hearing range, de Vil actually smiled. It took all of Bee's self-control not to widen her eyes. A smiling de Vil was far scarier than a cruel one. Cruel she could handle. She'd been dealing with cruel for a long time. Happy sent everything to a whole new level of creepy.

"This _is_ no mystery employer, is there? But no matter, I'll find out what you're up to sooner rather than later," she said, looking down her long nose at Bee before turning to walk away, "I should warn you – Gold's a bad man."

"He goes to your club, of course he's a bad man," she deadpanned at the woman's retreating back.

De Vil whirled back around, smiling gleefully. "And yet you're besotted with him, poor darling."

"What?" She wasn't quick enough to contain the spurt of denial, almost anger, at the comment. De Vil suddenly looked very, very smug. Bee's heart was racing. _Besotted...?_

"When you blush, you look like a princess," de Vil cooed, drawing a long nail down her cheek. She pinched it, much harder than necessary and Bee wriggled out of her hand with a scowl. The older woman straightened with a nasty look in her eye and a twist of her lips. "You look like a princess and you disgust me."

"Right back at you," Bee agreed through a locked jaw.

"I will find out your game," she said, walking away again. "And when I do, you will be very sorry." The two men appeared as if from air. De Vil stopped as they flanked her once more, and looked over her shoulder. "On second thoughts, you can keep the damned dog. Serve out your punishment then, if it means you get to be naked for him every night."

Watching her go with a silent breath of relief, Bee fumbled in her bag for a pair of keys.

_So she still hasn't realised. Interesting._

Running the ball of her thumb down the key ring, Bee walked around the perimeter of the pool area. She crossed to a manmade waterfall, hiding herself under the shadow of one of the rocky crags. She glanced around while unscrewing the lid of the gold and red crocodile skinned match lighter. Instead of a stick, with the bulb at the end, ready to be struck across the flint, it was piece of intricate metalwork. Pulling its beam out just enough to convince herself it was still there, she glanced at the aged iron, and the bell jar, twirling into the rosette, with a tiny crown atop it.

De Vil was right. It hadn't been about the dog. At least not entirely. Hearing its whimpers had been enough to convince her of a detour off her plan. But the thing about detours was that they always brought you back to the original destination. She'd planned to take the key. And she ended up with both dog and key. In hindsight the dog was a bonus. It was a distraction. De Vil still had no idea the precious iron beam was missing.

Which was good.

Given that Bee still had no idea what it opened.

But it was definitely what her father had described. The bell jar. The crown.

_"The Prince's Key."_

Bee stepped out of her temporary refuge and returned to exploring the hotel. Somehow, it lacked its original glamour. Somehow, the place seemed too big now. Like its high walls would fall in at any moment and crush her. Like there were too many nooks and crannies for security cameras to hide. She sighed.

The next step, figuring out what it opened, why it was important and why her father had told her to find it. Her father; soldier, leader, patriot, inventor, genius. Demoted for reasons that had never been explained to her, and now confined to a bed to be nursed by the best care she could afford (which up until recently had been very poor). Her father had told her a story about the Prince's Key, masquerading as a fairytale, one she'd been familiar with as a child. It reared its ugly head during her mid-teens, when she suddenly realised the story had more than just a kernel of truth. Then after the stroke, it had lodged itself inside her brain – that idea that she should go off and actually find it. A seed that was fed and watered by the skills learnt at Neverland and Jeff's suggestion. The perfect excuse to leave the organization.

To leave behind everything and come to Vegas on a search.

Bee felt a twinge of guilt. Jeff didn't know about the key. She'd tried to tell him dozens of times, but where to start? It was just like his past with Alice. There was more than what he'd told her. But how to put words to emotions, and heartbreak and hopes and foolish dreams and fears – grown and harvested over years and years? It was a near impossible task. He suspected, of course. He was her closest friend. Her 'best friend', she would have called it if she was still twelve. He could tell when she kept things from him. He hadn't commented when a Dalmatian puppy greeted him by jumping all over the walls and onto his face one evening after returning from his surveillance session. He hadn't commented on her key ring. Expensive and unlike her in style.

It wouldn't be long though. Once she found what it opened, they'd leave the city and go somewhere easier to hit – St Louis, perhaps. She'd tell him everything once she saw what it opened. Because really, there couldn't be that many skeleton keyholes in this day and age.

OOO

Bee was alone. She followed a sun bleached stone wall to her left, parallel to the pavement and the empty road. Everything shone with a brighter than bright light. Wishing she'd had the foresight to wear sunglasses, she switched the hand holding a rather large black camera and wiped her sweaty palm against a pair of cargo pants, swallowing around a dry tongue.

"Soy la fotógrafa," she muttered. "Soy yo, la fotógrafa? Yo soy la fotógrafa..."

Brows drawing together and wincing up at the merciless midday sun, Bee plucked at the front of her shirt, now sticking to her flesh. She should have just spared the money on the taxi. Who knew that number 7000 was so much further down Tomiyashu Lane than she'd predicted. And who'd know that this street contained nothing but giant compounds that took ten minutes to walk the length of, each with their own high walls and imposing metal gates. She dared to stop at one of them and peer through the bars, only to find herself looking at a substantial stretch of gravelled driveway with no front door in sight. She'd grimaced at the security camera half hidden in the leaves of a hedge, wondering what it must be like to live in a place where the trip from your front hall to your yard was worthy of an expedition.

"Rosa está lejos enferma...ella está baja enfermedad...?"

Wiping her forehead and wondering if thinking about her high school level Spanish was, if possible, making her sweat even more, Bee wracked her brains for the proper grammar. Already at a disadvantage by not looking quintessentially 'Mexican', she'd have to be speaking flawlessly to fool her target. _Rosa is off sick..._

"Ella está _de_ baja _por_ enfermedad, así que está vosotros fotógrafa," she murmured some more, playing around with the accent and the emphasis on certain syllables – trying to mimic the way Jeff had sounded. Damn him and his multilingual finesse. _Rosa is sick today, I will be your photographer..._

The wall ended abruptly, falling away to reveal towering gates and a tiny intercom on the far side. Bee took a deep breath and did a casual swipe for cameras. She spotted a CCD up a fir tree, camouflaged against the bistre bark and quickly became self conscious of her appearance. Clearing her throat, she pressed the button and tried not to glare too hard at the little black bulge just above the button. They could see her. And all she could do was look at her distorted reflection in the domed plastic, trying not to scowl. 0.14 inch lens, most probably, powered by DC12v, so easy to hack. Did these people really think their compound had any kind of security?

It was official. Walking for long periods of time drove her mad. Here she was, about to initiate a new scam, her first ever long con in fact, and instead of running through all of their prep, she was having a face off with an inanimate object. Oh, she really should have taken the cab.

"De Vil compound," a voice full of static addressed her.

Bee put on her practiced accent, "Parilla-Arenberg Realty."

"Rosa Ortega?"

"Erm, no," she dropped into Spanish, crossing her fingers, "En realidad, ella está de baja por enfermeded."

The woman seemed to hesitate before replying in heavily accented Spanish, "¿Ustedes estáis la sustituta?"

_Ustedes?_

Oh. Latin America. "Sí. This right place?"

"Yes, we've been expecting you," she sounded relieved at the return to English, "Come right in."

The gates began to move, opening inwards and inviting her to step upon the tiled driveway, wide enough for two cars to travel comfortably side by side. It took her a moment to snap her slack jaws together and take the first step. Palm fronds waved her inside, their leafy arms swaying slightly in a breeze too soft to be felt at ground level. Hedges trimmed in cubes and spheres outlined the driveway, a natural barrier between her feet (suddenly loud and stomping in the silence) and the carefully maintained lawns on the other side. The green seemed unreal. Ahead, Bee could see a large pool, with five spurting tongues of water. The driveway opened up, forming a roundabout, circling the artificial pond, raised upon a stone dais. Several feet of grass separated her from the pool as she kept to the path, imagining that all sorts of expensive cars drove around this place at five miles per hour.

_Focus!_

This wasn't about revelling in the grandness of the white clay; sprawling estate topped with terracotta roof tiles baked a delicate coral. Or admiring the expansiveness of the greenery, flourishing in the middle of the dessert. Or wondering, and hoping, if that path that skewed off to the right really did lead to the equestrian centre like Jeff's surveillance had promised. _Horses!_ And there was a golf course too. A special villa just for the de Vil's prized Dalmatians and a series of waterfalls and caves, where a grotto-like guest house had been carved right into the rock like in the Flintstones. Or The Hobbit.

Bee clenched her fists and shook some sense into her distracted head. It would do no good to marvel at the size of this place. It only made looking for her prize that much harder. So many hiding places. She gripped the camera with wet fingers and ran through her persona again.

Good thing the woman had reminded her of 'ustedes.' Bee had forgotten Latin Americans didn't use 'vosotros' when saying 'your.'

"Soy está ustedes fotógrafa, soy está _ustedes_ fotógrafa...Me llamo Beatriz, yo trabajo en la agencia."

_I'm your photographer. I work with the agency. Beatriz. My name is Beatriz..._

Taking the granite steps with as little trepidation as possible, Bee smiled wryly, realising that pretending to be Spanish was possibly the only time she could use her goddamned real name without getting those amused little grins sugared in equal amounts of pity and spite. Well, almost her real name anyhow. Beatrix; Beatriz – practically the same thing yet the latter still managed to sound more appealing than the first.

"Beatriz Munoz, en la agencia. With agency," she rolled her new voice around her tongue, pressing a metal door bell that started a tastefully fairy-like ringing behind the rippled glass doors. "En Parilla-Arenberg, Beatriz Munoz, ustedes fotógrafa esta mañana."

A woman, assumedly the woman who'd spoken from the gates, opened the door. Bee took little notice of her appearance, immediately starting to canvas the place. It was different, being here in person. Usually, she'd be looking at a scene through the eyes of a camera, aerial and in the corners. Switching between screens with her thumbs, while speaking down a microphone into the earpiece of an asset. The idea was the same, she suspected. Whether canvassing from a distance or looking for weak spots and danger points on the ground.

The foyer was spacey, covered in dappled granite tiles. On one wall hung two grey scrolls, a picture of some Egyptian amphorae on each. The place smelled like Somerset Collection (a mall in Metro Detroit she'd had the pleasure of going to one every year during Christmas, when the increase in window shoppers made her own lack of means less embarrassing). Like scented candles with fancy fragrances called 'cucumber & casaba' or 'vanilla almond', the faint scent of new leather, old paint, spring pine aerosol, and whatever lemon cleaning product they used to keep the floors sparkling. The place smelled like expensive things, with a pervading odour of cigarettes and heady tea leaves.

It was all so unfamiliar. She couldn't imagine her father having anything to do with a place like this. And yet...

"...during the Classical Age I believe, before Alexander the Great went and –" Bee gave the woman a blank look and she suddenly stopped speaking with a flush of apology. "Lo siento."

It took a beat for her to realise the woman had taken her staring at the Egyptian scrolls to be interest. Not that they weren't fascinating, if they were real of course. Bee didn't have enough experience to say for sure. Her daydreaming had been mistaken for incomprehension. A perk of playing the recent migrant, Bee thought, being able to pretend language was a barrier and be forgiven for things that would usually draw questions. A useful thought to be further investigated at a later date. She tucked it away and played along.

"¿Perdona?"

"Um...no me había...que...um...me peudo hacer entender normalmente, señorita," she laughed awkwardly and began to lead the way. Bee wasn't paying very much attention to the woman's words, much more focused on trying to figure out where a valuable key would be hidden. To her dismay, she'd already counted half a dozen places and she'd barely taken three steps inside the house.

"No te preocupes," she said vaguely, head whirling in all directions as she was led through the house. "I take photos. No worries."

Her accent slipped just a little and she reminded herself that unless she thought carefully about her words, she might as well say nothing at all. The woman didn't seem to notice the mistake. Bee finally looked at her guide and saw that she was tight, worried. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out why, never being all that fantastic with reading body language, much preferring the traditional form of reading – in a book, with printed letters.

"Have you been working with the agency long?" the woman asked, as the silence reached breaking point. Bee made a noncommittal sound and wondered just how much further they needed to go, her unease growing the more she explored the place. Too many drawers for a tiny key to be placed. It could be in plain sight. Had she already walked passed it? That would make this little excursion a pointless act of unnecessary exercise. What was she thinking, coming to this estate and trying to find one object amongst thousands?

Would she even manage to shake the housekeeper (or was it assistant?) long enough to do a search?

She doubted it.

They stopped outside a pair of wooden doors and the lady gave it a light rap, pressing her ear to it. A muffled reply came from within and Bee furiously emptied her head of everything except her persona. What with the doubts and the on-the-spot canvassing and the languages, it was beginning to be an impossible task.

"The photographer from the real estate come to take photos of the house, Madame."

Bee saw herself waved in. A woman had her back turned, reclining on a large couch upholstered in some kind of fur. From her direction wafted a rancid smell, a sort of herbal cigar that made spirals in the air and brought stinging tears to Bee's eyes. She blinked rapidly, looking up and around at the soaring oak roof in this room that resembled Canadian woodland cabins she'd read about in nature magazines. Walking around a lion in mid-stride, it took her several seconds of staring to realise it was alive.

Well, not alive.

Dead. Very dead. But real. Stuffed. It's nose still dewy even if its eyes had gone dark. Bee only just tensed her muscles in time to hold back the shiver. She lifted her head to the right and saw a giraffe. Beyond that, a brown bear standing on its hind legs. Deer heads were hung on the walls. And there, an eagle flying from the rafters. In a corner she spotted a rhino, no, _two_. A mating pair by the looks of it – one with horns, the other without. Weren't those very endangered? Was it legal to hunt breeding adults? Another step forward brought her head beneath a rack of candles. Chains hanging down from the ceiling held up an iron circlet. Candle brackets were welded into its rim and echoed a medieval dungeon.

This time, she wasn't quick enough to contain the shudder.

"Where is this photographer gone to? Has she died?" the voice cried, head still turned away and staring into the embers of a dying fire. Bee was just about to wonder why they'd bothered to light the fireplace with the heat outside, only to realise that this trophy room was as chilly as a freezer. Was it perhaps to preserve the animals? The idea was sickening.

She nearly crashed into a wolf, frozen in a snarl, its gums showing, in her haste to reach the woman.

"Clumsy," she drawled as Bee drew even with the chair. Suddenly uncertain what to do with her hands, she clasped them both around the camera and looked down at her feet. Feeling the woman's eyes on the crown of her bowed head, she swallowed and heard the sound echo. Could sound even echo in a wooden room?

"Are you Miss Ortega?"

She hadn't even attempted a Spanish pronunciation. It came out in a very derogatory 'Oh-Tee-Gar' and Bee felt offended for the woman whose place she'd taken (and who Jeff had, incidentally, made very sick with some conveniently placed laxatives).

"My name is Beatriz," she mumbled, hoping that by mixing her words some of the disdain in her voice could be disguised. The house was beautiful. This woman, in the few minute she'd been in her presence, was definitely not. She felt she understood the tension in the housekeeper-assistant. Bee didn't envy her job.

"Beatriz what, darlin'?" she blew out a smoke ring and aimed it right at her face.

Bee narrowed her eyes and looked up, refusing to let such a base distraction tactic shake her. She hadn't spent two years under Hook's tutelage, no small feat in itself, to back down to a class A bully like Carmella de Vil.

"Beatriz la fotógrafa," she said with a stubborn chin. "Yo trabajo en la agencia, my last name is no importante."

De Vil balanced the cigarette holder on her fingertips as she bore her beady eyes into Bee's head. Then, with an almost elegant movement, she rose and towered over her in a tight fitting pencil skirt and feathered shawl of some sort. Tipping Bee's chin upwards with long fingers, de Vil smiled and said in a silky voice "I like you. You have spitfire. Not enough of that around here."

She grabbed Bee's elbow and began to drag her out of the room into a hallway. "Such a shame, you know, I left Britain to escape those kinds of sentiments. Decorum is overrated, and here I was thinking America would hold some souls who didn't have a care about what they said."

French doors slid aside and unveiled a spacey lounge with a bar in the corner, fanned by a set of high chairs. There was a billiards table with mustard coloured felt taking up all of one side. De Vil continue to speak, arms waving and gesturing like an angry seagull, "But no. It's all, madame this and missus that and would you like me to wipe your arse with this warm towlette? Urgh, it's enough to drive one mad. But that chin of yours, very refreshing."

Bee found herself dumped unceremoniously onto one of the barstools. De Vil stuck the cigarette between her teeth and swept to the other side, about to prepare herself a drink.

The housekeeper-assistant bustled forwards with a, "Oh no, madame, let me!"

De Vil shot her such a dirty look, Bee wondered that the woman didn't melt right into the floor. She blew smoke in the woman's face and turned to Bee, "See that? Grovelling, Anita, it's called grovelling. Don't you have some file or other to organise away from our presence?"

The woman, Anita, nervously backed from the room. De Vil watched her with a smug expression. Dumping a glass of something brown in front of Bee, she leaned forward on her elbows and cocked an eyebrow.

"So, Beatriz la fotógrafa, what are you doing in my house?" her voice almost sleazy.

Keeping one wary eye on the drink, "To take the photos."

De Vil snorted and took Bee's hand, flipping it until her wrist was facing up. She ran hot fingertips over the lines on her palm. It took buckets of self-control to keep from taking those fingers and crushing them in her hand, throwing a good left swing over the counter while she was at it. Never in her life was she so certain she despised someone after such little conversation.

"Heart line begins beneath the middle finger, selfish in love, I see," de Vil crooned, "With lots of little lines crossing through – emotional trauma. Your head line is curving, so a creative mind but your life line is broken. Major injury in your past, or your future perhaps, and sudden lifestyle changes. And this line. Deep and long. They say it tells when someone is strongly controlled by fate. And this one is short and shallow. Trust issues; compulsive liar."

Bee slowly put the camera in her other hand on the bench top, letting her hijacked fingers sit in de Vil's loose grip. The expression of the woman's face was one of profound satisfaction. They sat in silence for several moments, Bee's mind working in overdrive, trying to see if de Vil was bluffing, or if she actually knew.

"I am just fotógrafa," she decided at last.

De Vil's smile grew even wider. "Fotógrafa? Fotó_gra_fa. Accent on the 'gra.' You've been saying it as fo_tó_grafa. Amateur mistake."

Bee blushed, breathing deeply to control the urge to run. Was she a dead man? De Vil did nothing but look down at Bee's bare forearm. Deliberately, she took the cigarette holder and put the burning end to Bee flesh. Not a muscle in her face twitched. She even stopped herself from biting her lip. De Vil looked up from her handiwork with triumphant eyes only to see the steely set of Bee's mouth. Her face fell and twisted, she practically threw Bee's arm back at her, rising from her stool with a flourish, her neck elongated and proud.

"What do you want?"

Bee smiled contentedly, even as she glanced down to inspect the damage on her skin. It stung, badly. A white circle ringed in red that had already begun to swell. Afraid that de Vil will see the flash of pain across her face, she quickly looked up, but the woman had paced to a television set into the wall, flicking through the remote with impatience, calling back over her shoulder, "You must know you won't get it, whatever it is you're here for."

_She knows_.

Alighting from her own stool leaving her drink untouched, Bee walked towards de Vil, now lazing back onto a couch. She took a long path around the furniture, trying to decide if she wanted to be American, Australian or British. De Vil herself had a British accent, though even Bee's minimal experience in fieldwork could have told her it was most likely fake.

"I just wanted to see your lovely house," she said with a southern twang, sitting herself on a cushion three feet from the older woman.

"You're a snarky little kitty aren't you?"

"Decorum is overrated," Bee echoed, watching daytime television fly by on the screen.

"Funny too," she laughing, a dry sound, "So very funny."

She sat forward and this time Bee had enough command over her pain to meet her eyes. "What do you want, kitty?"

This must be what the others described as the moment when 'the momentum changed.' For some reason, she knew that de Vil was far more unnerved by her presence than she was letting on. And the fact that she was asking Bee what she wanted again and again told her it was more than just empty rhetoric. De Vil actually didn't know. And not only did she not know, she was clearly drawing a complete blank.

The perfect target for a good con. She absentmindedly ran a finger over the burn. De Vil's eyes flickered to her arm. Her involuntary twitch forward to see the damage she'd inflicted gave Bee a very clear view of her cleavage.

Bee's breath caught and she stared at the chain around the woman's neck. _The key_.

Well, that made things simpler. No need to go on a treasure hunt around the entire estate. All she needed was to get the woman to remove the necklace. Or take it off for her.

"You're a wealthy woman, de Vil," she began, her tone light and gently suggestive.

Leaning back with a roll of her eyes, de Vil took a cheque book from a drawer in the coffee table, "How disappointing, I thought you'd be more interesting than that. How much do you want, girl?"

"$100,000."

Better to set the standard high.

De Vil cackled and abruptly stopped when she saw the serious look on Bee's face. "Kitty, I could just as well pay you nothing and have you killed by sundown today."

A rolling of nervousness upset her stomach but she bravely ploughed on, "You and what army?"

De Vil was laughing again, wiping tears from her eyes when she saw the look of incomprehension that Bee couldn't hide. "Oh, didn't your employer tell you who I was?"

"My employer..." she repeated slowly.

The woman snickered some more and stood up again, sweeping back to the bar. She seemed incapable of keeping in one place for very long. Bee had to twist around to keep her in sight. She was pouring something from a wine glass and taking nibbles from a cheese platter. She stuffed a cracker in her mouth and spoke around it, "Is it Claude, that old pervert? Is he after my secrets again?"

When Bee didn't reply, de Vil winked and popped a raspberry into her mouth, "Oh, I see. It's Lady Tremaine. You know we were friends once, in Paris, during the seventies."

"Fascinating," Bee said sarcastically. De Vil looked up and scowled. "How much are they paying you?"

"Less than $100,000."

"To spy on my kennels and snap some photos or something banal like that? Urgh, boring."

"If I raise my demands up to $150,000, will that make it more interesting?"

"Don't try to be clever, child, it doesn't suit you."

"I think I'm very clever."

"Fotó_gra_fa, not fo_tó_grafa..." De Vil lifted her eyebrows knowingly.

"Tomayto, tomahto. Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe I wanted you to figure it out. Maybe I wanted a...bonus, let's call it."

"Ooh!" de Vil was giggling again, and licking cream cheese off her fingers, "Kitty has claws. How delightful. You wanted me to offer you a bribe to switch sides. How utterly delightful. Okay, $100,000 for your troubles – if you also feed some let's say _misleading_ photographs in your employer's direction. Whoever they are."

"You want me to give them wrong info about your Dalmatians?"

De Vil was positively beaming, flouncing over with her champagne glass in one thin wrist and leaning down to Bee's height on the couch. "Exactly. Tell them I feed them oatmeal and androstenedione. Oh! Is it the good doctor?"

"Doctor?"

"Yes," she hissed with a grin, "Dr Facilier...don't you think he has a fantastic chin?"

"Fantastic," Bee repeated, peering down the front of de Vil's dress at the key. She suddenly felt hands grip her jaw and force her upwards.

"I never thought I'd be telling a sixteen year old _girl_ that my eyes are up here," de Vil grimaced.

Bee thought of two things are once. First, that de Vil would realise it was all a play to get the key and Bee would be very dead very soon. And second, that she certainly didn't look sixteen and it was insulting to be mistaken for a pubescent teenager. Since de Vil hadn't drawn a gun and pointed it at her head yet, Bee relaxed and simply shrugged. Perhaps she was so used to wearing the necklace she forgot it was even there, like earrings or a watch. And, as she observed the woman float away and light another one of her vile cigarettes (Bee's forearm tingled), being thought younger than you were wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Underestimation could be a powerful weapon.

"So, kitty," she inhaled some of the smoke with a look of pure bliss, her eyes still shut, "Which one of my dogs did they want the dirt on?"

"Which one do you want to give them dirt on?"

De Vil cracked open an eyelid and grinned, walking towards a sliding glass door which she opened, thankfully blowing out her smoke into the open air. A wave of heat hit Bee as she followed the woman out of the air conditioned home and onto the grounds. They must be heading towards the famous doggie villa.

"You know, Beatriz la fotógrafa, I think I like you," de Vil was walking and writing in her cheque book. She scrawled a signature and tore out a piece of paper. "I think I like you very much."

Bee made to grab the slip of paper but de Vil only laughed at her. "Not yet. After I have watched you send the information I want you to send, then I'll give this to you."

"How do you know I won't just tell my 'employer' the truth that you gave me false data?"

Tucking the cheque in between her breasts, de Vil reached over and took Bee's hand again. She tapped her fingers lightly against her palm and sang, "Because you don't have an honest bone in your damned body. Telling the truth to someone who's paying you _less_ than I am from the sheer _goodness_ of your heart? Ha! My darlin', your heart's as black as mine. I see it in your hands. I see it in your eyes."

Bee found herself walking down a path, passing manicured lawns and fenced off paddocks with sable horses grazing under the shades of fir trees. Hand in hand. But de Vil was still talking, blowing smoke rings up at the sky.

"One day, after you're done lying and cheating to the world. You'll be rich, rich like me. And have a stable and pools and as many Gurkha Black Dragon cigars as you bloody well want in a big house with a big Jacuzzi on a non-extradition island of your choice."

Staring down at the ground, she frowned. There was something worrying in the certainty of the woman's claims. She sounded almost...proud. Even as she fought a mental battle, one that involved her father and the key against Hook and all she'd discovered in herself at Neverland, Bee never took her hand out of Carmella de Vil's grasp.

OOO

Gold had it.

She sat there staring at her defiled drink, de Vil's cigarette sinking to the bottom looking like some deformed worm. It was hideous. She was hideous. And that key. _Oh_, that key. It was anything but hideous. How had her father described it? That's right:

_Once upon a time, there was a key – forged by the Silver-Hearted Dragon and magicked into existence by a Wicked Witch. Strong as oxen head and as beautiful as Bougainvillea. So precious the fairies fault wars over who could touch it._

How strange, that her father's voice – grown into something of a distant memory – lost amongst all the more recent, more vivid sights and sounds in her life, was suddenly clear as her own heartbeat. She felt guilty. Guilty and awful for forgetting the voice of her only parent. She'd lain awake for hours on her more insomniac nights, trying to recall the exact pitch and timbre of his tone, with little success. Yet here, where so much superfluous noise (that constant jingling and ringing of the slots) should have distracted her, his words came to her, like a recording on an old cassette.

Gold had stolen the key off her and she'd assumed he'd given it back to de Vil, at an elevated price. That had been the ultimate betrayal. That had been why Bee had left Vegas. She put her face in her hands and stifled a scream. Apparently, he hadn't given the key to de Vil. Which meant he still _had_ it. All she had to do was walk up to him and say, give me the key in return for your son. Of course he'd hand it over. Gold was torturing people to get to his son. He would definitely hand over a key. And then Bee would be free from here. Free to run away and leave Jeff and his operation in peace.

But the key. That was the problem. Why had she stolen it in the first place? Oh..._oh_...no. Absolutely not. She couldn't. Could she...?

"A fresh drink for you," the waitress said, putting down a new gin and tonic. Bee nodded her thanks and looked suspiciously at it. She hadn't ordered it. No way was she touching that.

About to stand up, she noticed the napkin peeking from under the glass and pulled it out. Lipstick. Cherry red.

GET THE KEY AND SAVE YOURSELF

Bee shot up from her seat and looked around. Who had bought her that drink? She flipped the napkin inside out and saw nothing else. Crumpled in her fist, she chased the waitress. It was the same one who had served her when she was with Mary Margaret. Coincidence?

"Hey!"

The waitress turned around, surprised and wary.

"Hey, who ordered that?" she pointed back to her table. The waitress shrugged, bewildered. "You can't remember or you don't know?"

"Well, all the orders get taped to the wall of the bar and we just pick them up with they're finished. I thought you'd ordered it, ma'am."

Bee held up the napkin enclosed in her hand, "What about the napkins, didn't you have to grab one from a box or something?"

"No, ma'am," the waitress said, looking more and more alarmed, "They're placed on the trays like that. A napkin with a glass on top."

"Where are the trays located?"

She pointed to a corner of the bar, where several round trays were in a row, each with different orders upon them. The waitress' walked up to the line and picked up different trays, seemingly at random. They would then return them to a pile on the end, when a man from behind the counter would take them away and put a new order on it, returning it to the queue. Anyone could walk up and tamper with a drink or switch a napkin. But still, the _same_ waitress as last time?

"What's your name?"

"Morgan," she answered, sounding more like she was asking a question, "le Fay."

"Right. Morgan le Fay," Bee patted her on the shoulder and took a cautious step closer to the taller woman. "Just...Cherry...I'll call you Cherry..._look_, _it's not that simple. I can't just ask for it back_."

"I'm sorry?" Morgan looked around. Some of the other customers were staring now. Bee continued to look her in the eye, feeling slightly foolish but knowing that the person who had given her the note – her new frenemy – would be listening.

"I want to run. But I need to be able to live with myself wherever I end up running to. And that key opens something that needs to stay locked and hidden away. If I give it back to her, I will never forgive myself."

"Ma'am?"

"Thanks Morgan," Bee took out five dollars and pushed it into her palm. She left the waitress standing there, looking like a stunned mullet.

The key. The _key._

OOO

* * *

**Stuff of Interest: The Wynn hotel opened April 28th 2005. De Vil's house is 7000 Tomiyashu Lane - the Primm Compound. It's worth $16.5million and is still on the market (I think) if anyone is casually looking to buy a home next to the Sultan of Brunei's estate. ****I hope Bee's little trick to de Vil isn't too confusing. She's pretending to be a spy for a competitor who then gets paid off to feed false information back about the dogs, when in fact, all she wants is the key around de Vil's neck.  
**

And this is officially half way through the story! All the initial set up is finito and we can finally get to resolving some of this shiz.  
To all the people who reviewed or PM'd me to hurry the fuck up...thank you! You actually did help me get over my angst for starting my senior year :) I really wish fanfic . net allowed you to respond to guests/anons. Some of you guys ask questions and I have no idea how to get back to you! Drop your twitter handle if you have one and I can tweet you a reply. I've decided to do NaNoWriMo so expect 50 000 words by the end of November. Yes. You're welcome. Am I forgiven for my lack of updating last month? A bit? Yes? Still no?

Okay :(**  
**


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